“Don’t tell her my mom’s sick.” Max shook his head. “She’ll show up with chicken soup or something.”

“Dude, that girl wants you. I don’t know what you’re waiting for.” Leo shook his head like Max was an idiot.

Maybe he was. Delilah was easy to look at, and he definitely thought about her that way (a lot), but his life was so messed up right now, he couldn’t handle bringing a girl into it.

At least, not this girl.

“I’m not waiting for anything. I’m just weighing my options.” Max smirked as he trekked to the driver’s side.

“You hanging tomorrow?” Leo called after him.

“I’m working the dinner shift.”

“I will make you have fun this summer!” his friend called.

Max plopped into his seat and slid the cap backward. “I’m all about fun!”

And he was, when he wasn’t making sure his sister was safe—from his mother.

CHAPTER THREE

Vera

Vera scratched her back on the bark of a tree as lime-green strings of pollen showered her book. At school, she was reading The Stand on her phone. At home, she was reading a signed copy of The Outsiders, a prized possession.

Books, solitude, and work—that was her summer break in three words.

A metal screen door clattered in the distance, and she turned to spy white-haired Mr. Zanger following his little puff of a dog, nearly as arthritic as he was.

Seven years ago, during the worst hurricane their town had ever seen, Vera saved both their lives. She wasn’t being dramatic. She was ten years old, and she ran out into gale-force winds to help the old man when he slipped while taking the dog out to relieve nature’s call. Mr. Zanger hit his head, hard, and was motionless, faceup in the wind and rain. Vera jostled him back to consciousness, and when he opened his eyes, he clambered away as though she were scarier than the Category Two storm.

Sadly, that wasn’t the worst thing to happen that day. Or the most dangerous.

Vera raised her hand in a neighborly salute. Mr. Zanger turned his back. The dog, however, locked its black eyes on her and released a series of piercing yelps. Then its gray mustache twitched, shifting into a throaty growl.

I should’ve left you both in the rain, she thought, though she’d save them both again tomorrow. First, do no harm. Med school was in her future.

“Vera! Dinner’s ready!” Aunt Tilda called from the kitchen.

Vera set her bookmark and strode toward the back door, inhaling the savory scent of rosemary. Tilda McMahon prided herself on being “the best Irish cook in the family,” though her only competition, Vera’s mother, considered microwave popcorn a reasonable dinner. Vera’s father could cook, mostly Spanish rice and plantains, but he only donned his Kiss Me I’m Puerto Rican apron on major holidays. Other than that, Vera boiled pasta and Aunt Tilda cooked potatoes with some form of meat that was hardly ever chicken.

“Smells good.” Vera tiptoed in.