I’m roused by Jace’s voice. “We’re here, Viv.” He shakes my shoulder gently.

I groan in protest as consciousness slowly begins trickling back in. I’m still in the truck. Somehow, I traveled across the rest of the bench seat. I’m now pressed against Jace’s side, using his bicep as a pillow. My seatbelt is stretched to capacity, the stiff material digging into my shoulder.

I sit up fully, disoriented. Darkness surrounds us, but I glance to the right and see a large, faded white farmhouse. Its blazing lights illuminate the silhouettes of several figures standing on the wooden porch that wraps around the front of the house.

Jace opens his door. The rush of cold air and the bright light that flickers on in the cab of the truck chase away the final remnants of sleep.

I put on my jacket and grab my bag before sliding out onto the dirt driveway. Jace has already grabbed our bags from the bed of the truck and is walking toward the front porch. I trail after him hesitantly, feeling like an intruder as I watch him hug a middle-aged woman with short brown hair who must be his mother and a tall, dark-haired man who I assume is his father. Several shorter figures in pajamas surround them, bouncing around in excitement. I hover on the lowest step, watching as Jace steps out of his father’s embrace and glances back at me. I climb the next two steps to stand on the very edge of the porch.

“This is Vivienne, everyone.” Jace beckons me forward. “Vivienne, this is my mom, dad, Alden, Max, and Claire.”

They all eye me curiously, but none of them look surprised to see me, so Jace must have already told them he was bringing me.

Jace glances around the porch. “Where’s Mike?”

“He’s spending the night at Jason’s,” Jace’s mom replies. “He promised he’d be back first thing to help get everything ready, or else he’s just asking for a grounding.” She steps forward and smiles warmly at me. “It’s so nice to meet you, Vivienne.” She gives me a quick hug.

“You too, Mrs. Dawson,” I reply. “Thank you for having me.”

“Call me Ellen, please,” she responds. “Now come inside. You must be exhausted.”

I follow her into the warm house. A row of cubbies line the right side of the front hallway. The floor is littered with an assortment of muddy rubber boots and the hooks in each cubby boast an assortment of jackets in different sizes and colors. A wide, wooden staircase is located just beyond the tiled entryway that leads upstairs.

Ellen veers to the left, and I trail after her into a cozy living room containing a long couch and two overstuffed armchairs. The walls are covered with bookshelves. A wood stove sits in the corner. It fills the room with the sound of crackling wood, and casts enough heat to erase the remaining chill from outside.

The living room transitions into a massive kitchen. The wide wooden floorboards creak beneath my feet as I walk toward the long tabletop decorated with smudges of paint and faded scratches. A handmade ceramic bowl sits in the center, filled with a mix of green and red apples.