“You knew!” If this tree house were any bigger, I’d stand up and pace, but all I can do is pound the floor with an angry fist as disbelief has my words coming out choked. “You knew there were werewolves!”

“Of course I did.” She could be discussing the weather or a mildly interesting work story from the nonchalant tone she uses to flip the whole fucking world on its side.

“Of course? What do you mean, of course?!”

“Sweetheart, there’s no need to worry about them.”

I clutch my head, trying with all my might to keep my brain from exploding. “Werewolves are real. Supernatural creatures are living in Pine Falls. And you didn’t think this was something you should share with me?” By the last sentence, I’m back to shouting because this is what my family does to me.

With the rest of the world, I can keep a cool, logical head. But put me in a room with another Gunner, and soon, I’ll be hollering until my throat is hoarse.

“I did tell you.”

“No, you sure as hell did not!”

“Of course I did. The werewolf stories were your favorites when you were younger.”

Maybe I am in fact losing my tether to reality. Seems like that trait runs in the family.

“Mother”—I speak slowly to keep from yelling, but now, my voice comes out tighter than a guitar string—“parents tell their children fairy tales. Make-believe stories. Why would you think I, now twenty-seven-years old, would accept them as fact?”

She huffs on her side of the line, as if I’m the one being unreasonable. “It’s not my fault you didn’t want to believe that werewolves existed. I never told you they didn’t. If you had asked me⁠—”

“Why would I ask you that?!” I’m shouting again. “That is not a normal question!”

“Sweetheart, you know I’m all for dramatics, but I really think you’re overreacting.”

That’s the final push. There is a precarious balance between horrified disbelief and manic hilarity. My mom has always been a master at upsetting my scales.

I laugh.

I laugh as if I were dying and this was my last chance to find something hysterical. I laugh to the point of tears and gasping. I laugh because I can’t contain the unfathomably absurd love I have for my outrageous mother.

She’s too ridiculous to stay mad at.

So, I laugh.

The phone slips out of my hand at some point, probably when I curl into the fetal position to keep my ab muscles from cramping. The device lies on the tree house’s floor, a foot from my head, and I can hear my mother’s voice calling out from the speaker.

“Zoey? Sweetheart, are you still there?”

I reach for the phone, pressing it to my ear. “Yeah, Mom. I’m here.”

“And you swear you’re not hurt?”