In the kitchen, the dogs yap and yowl when I appear. Harley Quinn, my chocolate lab with a stubbed tail, reaches me first, wiggling her ass and drooling on the hardwoods. I rub behind her ears with one hand and along Hannibal’s back with the other. A Bassett Hound, he howls his appreciation, perking his ears, one of them only halfway, as it was nearly ripped off as a puppy. Finally, my three-legged German Shepherd, Blackbeard, moseys between them, politely waiting his turn, which I often tell him is very un-pirate-like.

Fighting the soreness, I wrestle them to the floor, letting them get their fill of my overdue attention.

A shadow moves over us. Mom stands there, hands on hips and looking exasperated, watching us with a mix of delight and criticism.

“Grady, don’t get them wound up. They just settled. They’ve been underfoot all morning like they know something’s wrong.”

“Yeah, they want to go home,” I say, standing up.

She pushes a sandwich plate at me. “Here. Have a BLAT.”

“What’s a BLAT?”

“A bacon, lettuce, avocado, and tomato sandwich. You need lycopene for antioxidants and vitamin C in the tomatoes, and avocado is a superfood, rich in vitamins C, K, and E. You need the energy. The bacon makes it taste good,” she explains. “Right, doggies?”

Blackbeard grunts an affirmative, speaking for the group.

Mom, a.k.a. Carmela Tripp, is the town’s pharmacist and a staunch believer that the right vitamin, mineral, medication, or meal will cure anything from a sour stomach to a bad mood—she’s yet to convince me.

“Are you okay?” she asks, her voice pitching higher.

“Fine.” I take the plate and sit at the elongated island next to Marigold.

“I could call Dr. Hinky.” She reaches for her phone.

“Gil’s shrink? Why?”

“You need someone to talk to, Grady,” she sighs. “What happened yesterday⁠—”

“Not now, Mom. Please.”

“It’s traumatic,” she continues, “and not just for… them.”

Them. The word sounds so separatist. Maybe “them” fits the Sullivans—they, with their luxury cars, mani-pedis, and housemaids, aren’t like us, with our grimy boots and fingernails, family BBQs, and economy everything.

Still, as different as we are, Marina doesn’t seem so. She wants to be a them, but is she? She’s more an us. Her words swirl in my head. I thought today I’d get a family.

A dark thought passes through me, remembering Ashe crying into his mom’s shoulder rather than consoling Marina, and, later, finding her alone. It seemed off. But everything about the Sullivans and most people generally feels off to me.

Sighing, I peer across at Mom. Her critical stare reminds me of a strict teacher, evaluating me for errors.

“Grady, please. Dr. Hinky’s worked wonders with Gil’s anxiety,” she says.