“Brace yourself,” Ana says as we walk up the sidewalk to her house. Brace myself? What? She opens the door before I can ask what she means.

The first thing I notice when we walk into Ana’s home is that there are people everywhere. I count four people who are visible from the front door, and they’re all packed into a fairly compact space. The living room and kitchen connect to form one front room, with a half wall in between that has a long table shoved up against it. A middle-aged woman with short dark hair and a distracted expression sits at the table, watching the news in Spanish on a tiny silver TV. I catch a quick mention of Ken Gardener, that wizard who’s been on the news a lot recently for making witches at his company share magic with him.

In the living room, two girls who look like ten-year-old versions of Ana—complete with wild curls and the same thick eyebrows—are playing a raucous game of Magic Marbles. They shriek with delight and anger in turn as they freeze and melt the patches of water in the game board, each trying to bounce the marble into the other’s goal. Next to them, a man with dark, shiny hair snores loudly on an overstuffed couch.

“That’s my dad,” Ana says, nodding at the couch. She slips off her loafers into the pile of shoes by the door. I follow suit. “He can sleep through basically anything. He works nights, so he kind of has to. And those are my sisters Isabel and Xiomara.”

Isabel and Xiomara scream, as if to prove her point. One of them jumps up and does a wild victory dance. “¡Tramposa!” the other girl yells repeatedly.

“Ana!” The woman watching TV at the table turns toward us, finally noticing our arrival. “¿Quién es ella?”

“Mi amiga Shay,” Ana says, walking over to the table. “Shay, this is my mom.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mrs. Álvarez says, smiling widely. She has a melodic accent and enunciates each word carefully when she speaks. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I am sort of hungry, and I get the sense from her tone that, like my mom, this family won’t take no for an answer.

“Mami,” Mrs. Álvarez calls, leaning out of her seat toward the edge of the wall dividing the living room and kitchen. “Por favor prepara—”

Before she can get the words out, a tiny old lady with spiky silver hair hurries out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of rice and beans. She laughs and speaks effusively in Spanish. Ana and Mrs. Álvarez laugh loudly. I smile politely and take the bowl when the old lady offers it to me.

“Lo siento, no hablo español.” This is, unfortunately, the only Spanish phrase I can say.

The woman, who I’m assuming is Ana’s grandma, gives me a thumbs-up. “No problem!”