Dad asks what I want to do when we get home. Since it’s late afternoon, I suggest we drop Loki at the house to give him a chance to explore his surroundings and grab a bite. Dad says it’s a good idea, and when I ask Renn if he is hungry, he tells me he is always hungry, which I guess makes sense when you are six two and surf all day.

As soon as we get home—which, thank God, is not a brothel—I open Loki’s carrier and fill him two bowls with water and food. I set a fresh litter tray in the laundry room, even though I’m pretty sure he is going to spend the first day or so hiding under the couch.

After I’m done, I look around me. The house looks almost identical to how I left it. Almost. But not quite. I don’t know how to explain it, but it doesn’t look so sad anymore. Mom’s things are still here—paintings, pictures, and her favorite throw. But the place has been freshly painted, including one purple accent wall. There are a few paintings that weren’t here before, and there are fresh flowers on the counter.

“Ready to roll?” Dad claps my shoulder. It is so awkward but so endearing that he is trying. I nod. We go back to the car. This time, I drive. It is important for me to get behind the wheel, especially after what happened to Dom. I could see myself swearing off driving due to trauma. I avoided my hometown for the same reason. I will never be able to take the BART again. There are just too many painful memories.

“Where to?” I ask.

“Cheesecake on Union Square?” Renn’s eyes light up. “I could smash two of their bread baskets while I wait for my entrées.”

“Too busy and touristy.” I blow a raspberry at Renn, looking at the rearview mirror. For a moment, we’re just normal teens fighting for the purpose of fighting.

“It’s your call, Ever,” Dad says, sitting beside me.

“Aw, but her choices always suck,” Renn complains.

“How do you know?” Dad asks. “It’s been years since she was here.”

Aaand I want to throw up all over again.

Deciding to play it safe, I take us to a diner the entire family used to go to every Sunday. It’s in Chinatown. It’s called George’s Greasy Spoon. From the outside, it is a train wreck of epic proportions. Nestled in a dilapidated four-story building, with people’s laundry hanging over the sign, concealing most of it.

We step inside, and old George greets us at the door himself, even though the place is jam packed. I’m so taken aback I almost fall over my feet.