“Why don’t you go home, Cara,” my mom said. “You’ve had a long day.”

To which Cara responded, “Thank you, ma’am. Enjoy the roast.”

I hated that she called my mom “ma’am.” I hated that she was cooking for us instead of for her own family. I felt uptight and awkward about it even after she had gone. Especially because the me from this world never gave it a second thought. He didn’t even know or care if she had a family.

My parents made small talk over dinner, trying to engage Hunter and me, but we were both the princes of one-word answers. How’s school? “Good.” Doing anything interesting? “Eh.” Coach working you too hard? “Naah.” Eventually they just resorted to talking to each other. Today’s topics of conversation were the Icelandic refugee crisis (which was a unique aspect of this world), and whether or not electrolyte-infused goji berry protein powder was a growing trend in the supplement market.

I, of course, had to open my big mouth about that. “Do goji berries grow in Iceland?” I asked. The question stymied my parents.

“I don’t know,” my mother said. “Probably not. Why?”

“Because I don’t get how you could talk about a country’s civil war in the same breath that you talk about some stupid protein powder.”

My father gave me one notch beneath a glare. “All these things affect our lives in one way or another.”

“Actually, I was thinking that maybe we could take in an Icelandic refugee family,” Mom suggested. “Let them stay in our carriage house.”

And my dad said, “I’ll look into it. I think it would be . . . a meaningful gesture.”

I accessed some memories of my parents here. They were quite the philanthropists—donating time and money to worthy causes. Some causes more than others. But taking in a displaced family seemed a step out of their comfort zone. I didn’t think much about it at first.

Hunter ate quickly and excused himself. I was done only seconds after him, but my parents asked me to stay for a moment.

“Why?” I asked. “Is there dessert?”

But the reason had nothing to do with the food, and everything to do with why we were having this meal in the first place. It was to ambush me.

“We heard you’ve joined a social action club at school,” my dad said.

I immediately became suspicious. “Heard from who?”

He just shrugged. “Just around. People talk.”

Then my mom chimed in. “We think it’s wonderful that you’re taking an interest in social issues, Ash. We just want to make sure that this is really something you want to be involved in.”

“And that you’ve thought it through,” added my father.