When I’m done, I throw away the shells, find a clean bowl for the peeled eggs, and wash my hands. “Okay, see you later,” I say.

“Where are you going?” my mother says.

“To Honey’s—I promised I’d help them.” This isn’t strictly true, but I’ve had enough of the smell and the quiet in here.

“Don’t you think they have enough helpers?” my mother says saltily.

“The more the merrier,” I call, already at the door.

When I get to the Wines’, I ring the doorbell. No one answers. The knocker is still missing. But Mrs. Wine’s minivan is in the driveway. I know they’re all home.

As soon as I let myself in, I am enveloped in the intense smell of fish and something burning. The dining room doors have been thrown open, and the table has been extended out into the hallway, waiting for all the guests tonight. The kitchen, its counters covered in specially fitted boards, is empty.

“Hello?” I call. I look in the den. Aaron is there with Abbie, his therapist.

“Say hi to Milla, Aaron,” she instructs, using her fingers to remind him about eye contact.

“Hi-Mil-la,” he says. He raises his eyes for a moment from the laminated flashcards on the table.

“Hi, Aaron,” I say, smiling. Behind him through the window, I see Mr. Wine, Josh, Dan-Dan, and Micah standing around a fire in the backyard. They must be burning the chametz, which some people do the morning Passover starts. I think my dad and Max are taking ours to the dump.

“Sorry for not answering the door,” Abbie apologizes. “The bell’s been going nonstop this morning, and I can’t keep interrupting my session with Aaron. They’re all in the Passover kitchen,” she explains, pointing to the floor.

I head down to the basement, the smell of fish getting stronger with each step. Most of the year, the Wines’ Pesach kitchen sits behind a closed door off the Ping-Pong room and looks like any other closet door. But as I reach the bottom step, I see that the kitchen doors are wide open—and the Ping-Pong table is covered with a plastic cloth and serving as a temporary pantry of Passover tins and packets, bags of chips, candy, and boxes upon boxes of matzah. As I approach, I’m met with the source of the fish smell and the sound of singing.

Miriam is leaning against the doorjamb eating a chocolate pudding. Honey, Ezra, Mrs. Wine, and Honey’s bubbie are shoulder to shoulder in the tiny kitchen, in an assembly line making gefilte fish, shaping mini loaves of sweet ground fish and then dropping them in a massive pot of boiling water. Above the roar of the stove fan, which is vainly trying to suck out the fumes of the fish, they are singing rounds of “Ma Tovu”—“What Is Good?”—which makes me smile to myself in fondness. The Wines’ voices are not good, but that never stops them.