“That’s too bad,” I say. “But May’s here now, she hasn’t left for school yet. Do you wanna talk to her?”

“Yes, of course! Thank you.”

I eagerly pass my phone to May, who gives me a sympathetic smile. She loves her grandparents, and I’m glad for that. It’s just different for me. They’re not my family.

My only family is May. And that’s more than enough.

“Hi, Grandma!” May says cheerily into the phone.

Slipping out of the kitchen with my coffee, I head out onto the front porch to give them some privacy. Not that May keeps any secrets from me.

Okay, so maybe I’m saving myself from overhearing how nice and easy their relationship is.

I plop down on the wicker loveseat, enjoying the fact that it’s no longer freezing outside. It only took most of April for the spring temperatures to actually arrive. Finally, I can exhale without seeing my own breath. Hallelujah!

I lean back, bring my mug up to my mouth, and—achoo!—sneeze right into it. Dammit.

Every year, as I grit my teeth through frigid winters and pray for spring, I somehow manage to forget that my allergies act up during this season.

Frowning into my tainted coffee, I determine it not too gross, and take a sip. Because if there’s one thing in this world I don’t waste, it’s coffee. If you cut me open, I’m pretty sure you’d find as much coffee running through my veins as blood.

A flapping noise comes from my left, and I turn my head in time to see an orange and white-speckled chicken land on the porch railing.

“Hey there, Delilah.”

Cluck.

Sure, a person living in a normal town might be disturbed by a chicken appearing on their porch. But Mayweather is anything but normal, so I just go back to drinking my coffee.

Delilah belongs to my next-door neighbor Mitch. When May and I first moved to town, we hadn’t been here more than a few hours before Mitch showed up knocking on my door to introduce himself. Being a hopeless people pleaser, I invited him in, not expecting a freaking chicken to follow him over the threshold and into my kitchen.

The kitchen was a disaster, with stuff all over the counters and unpacked boxes on the floor. But my coffee maker was set up, because priorities, and Mitch didn’t hesitate to ask for a cup. After making it for him, I took a seat across from him at the small round table, and the chicken immediately flew into my lap.

“That’s Delilah,” he told me. “Or Delilah Doodle Doo. Delilah Doodle Don’t when she’s in trouble.”

Very distracted—and mildly terrified—by the large bird in my lap, I unintentionally spilled my whole tragic backstory to Mitch when he asked where I’d come from.