“Nope.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Fitz says.

“My house, my rules.” His brows lift. “You don’t like it? There are at least twenty other people who would die to live here.”

Fitz answers for us. “No, no, it’s fine.”

Jude’s hands clap together, startling me. “Great. We begin tonight.”

4

I’ve never been one to run from a challenge.

—Patrick Swayze

Fitz

“Kitchen.” Jude flourishes one arm, like we’re on a TV show about fancy multimillion-dollar cribs instead of a small kitchen with ancient cabinets and worn linoleum. “We take turns cooking supper. Rotation is on the fridge.” He points to a white board calendar. “Nothing too fancy. Beast makes a mean jambalaya. Hope you like it hot. For all your other meals and snacks, buy and label your own. Ask before borrowing items that don’t belong to you. Kindergarten rules apply. Questions?”

“No,” I answer.

Reese says nothing, just gives a quick shake of her head.

Before the tour, Jude had us sign liability waivers, documents he procured from a drawer in the living room. I peeked at hers while we were filling them out. It was the only way I could figure out her name, since she hasn’t uttered a peep since we agreed to this whole thing, let alone taken the time to introduce herself.

It should be concerning Jude had such a thing on hand for us to sign, but I can’t find it in me to question or complain. At least I’m not sleeping in my truck tonight.

We follow Jude out the kitchen and down the hall toward the back of the house. “Here’s the bathroom.” He pushes open a door and flicks on the light. “Beast and I share the one at the back of the house. The one for public consumption is off to the side of the dining room, next to the laundering area. Y’all get this one, but people will probably still use it when it gets busy around here. Keep it clean, babies.”

One small sink, more warped linoleum. An old white claw-foot tub with a low showerhead.

Across the hall, he opens another door. “And here it is. The room you’ve all been waiting for.” He flicks the switch and Christmas lights come on, strung around the top of the room.

I stick a head in the door and peer around. “But it’s October.”

Jude shrugs. “Ran out of lamps.”

He wasn’t kidding about the room being tiny. There’s a narrow bed shoved in one corner, a three-drawer dresser that would be insufficient for a toddler, and a closet that doesn’t even span the length of my forearm. It’s all topped off with a murky smell of dust and disuse. Like it was recently a storage closet before being converted.

And somehow, we have to cram all of our crap in here while we compete for the “opportunity” to live here indefinitely.

“I’ve got only one key. I recommend keeping the room locked up at night when things get social. Whoever wins the challenge will get to be guardian of the key till the next challenge, but you can keep it unlocked during the day for general use and access to personal belongings. The rest of the babies—the ones who don’t live here—aren’t allowed in until after five every day, so your items will be secure.”