“I know you do,” Dad said, his eyes saying it too.

“Let’s go, Oren,” I said as I stood up. “I guess we have to finish cleaning up out there.”

“If you’re up for it,” Dad said, looking at Oren.

“Yeah,” Oren said. “I feel better. I—is it weird to say I kinda like it here?”

“Yes,” Dad said with a chuckle. “But it means you fit in very well with the rest of us. Now go finish cleaning, and I’ll see you two later this afternoon.”

We left the room and went to the storage closet to get the vacuum. We both glanced at the fridge.

“You okay?” I asked.

Oren nodded. “I think so. I mean…I will be. A lot of that is thanks to you, Evie.”

I shrugged. “What are junior funeral directors for?”

He shook his head. “I think you mean, ‘What are friends for?’ ”

“Yeah,” I said, grinning at him. “I guess that too.”

This summer

Sitting on a log in front of a warm, crackling campfire, I used two chocolate-lined graham crackers to slide the perfectly toasted marshmallow off the stick.

When he’d pulled the ingredients out of the cooler, Dad had tried to convince us that this combination was his invention. He called them s’Bens, but I knew for sure that s’mores were invented even before Dad was born. And c’mon. S’Bens? That didn’t even make sense!

“Here you go,” I said as I handed the gooey mess to Oren. “Try not to get your cast all sticky.”

“That won’t be a problem,” he said. “The entire thing is going straight into my mouth.” And, as promised, he shoved the whole thing in. His cheeks bulged out like a chipmunk’s. I laughed as he struggled to chew.

“How’s it taste?”

“Gooth,” he said, “Thankth!” Bits of graham cracker came flying at me.

“Gross!” I reached for the bag of marshmallows to toast one for myself. I’d already made a bunch for my parents and Jared, who were sitting on the other side of the campfire on their own log, talking about whatever. But after two each, they’d said no more, so now I was making them just for us. Nate wasn’t a fan of marshmallows, so he was sitting off to the side, eating a bag of chips. My parents pretended not to notice that he was on his phone, texting.

“Speaking of my cast,” Oren said once he’d swallowed. “I go to the doctor next week, and he might be taking it off.” He looked so excited. I couldn’t blame him for wanting to get rid of the itchy thing that kept him from doing fun things like quilling and swimming without a plastic bag taped on his arm.

His cast was now covered with writing of all sorts and colors. I had been the first to sign it, right on the top, where he’d see it all the time.

I’d drawn a picture of an owl and a little note to go with it: