At least, they’re supposed to. Right now, they’re sort of duking it out with Grandma’s things, and I’m constantly reminded that we are living in someone else’s space on borrowed time.

I shuffle down a narrow hall past Evie’s room—weird and spooky taxidermy, racks of altered retro clothes, stacks of worn historical romance paperbacks—and retreat into mine, which contains one hundred percent fewer taxidermized squirrel-cobra mashups.

In fact, my old childhood bedroom might as well be a hotel room because it contains little to nothing but clothes and photography stuff. I have a single bookcase filled with essential photography books, including my father’s coffee table book of fashion photos, and all my vintage cameras. My oldest is a No. 2 Brownie from 1924 (doesn’t work), and the rarest one is a Rolleiflex Automat from 1951 (it does), and of course, there’s my Nikon F3, my most used camera. My digital pictures are stored online like everyone else’s, and most of the film I develop is organized in containers that are stacked in the corner. However, the space above my pushed-against-the-wall bed is lined with curated photos I chose to display, hung on strings with wooden clothespins. I can take them down and pack them in under a minute. I’ve timed it.

All the bedrooms up here are super tiny, but mine has a bay window that looks out over gabled rooftops and steeples toward the town common. I stumble out of my shoes and head there now, to the window seat and its cushioned nest of pillows—a nook where I’ve spent a good chunk of the last few months reading and watching seagulls.

Might as well feel sorry for myself here, too.

But though I’m fully prepared to stay in all night and sulk, Evie shows up an hour later with other plans for both of us, pulling me out of my room to eat cold leftover takeout noodles while Mom is buried in some accounting mess downstairs in the bookshop.

Evie closes her eyes and holds up a finger to one temple. “Madame Evie the Great is getting a vision from the beyond. The spirits are showing me … wait. I’m seeing you and me on First Night.”

“Is this a biblical vision of the end times?”

“It’s tradition here for everyone to throw First Night house parties—as in first night of summer. School’s out, students are home from college, and the tourist season is about to begin.”

“And all of that equals an excuse to cut loose and throw wild ragers?”

“Pretty much,” she agrees.