As we move toward the stairway, Emma says in a low voice, “I’m sorry about all this.”

My eyes shoot to her. I met her three minutes ago, and she’s already apologizing for not being in my mom’s life? Does she think that’s enough of an apology? But she’s pointing back toward the front door, at the banner and balloons. “The decorations.” She meets my eyes again. “Also, I’m very sorry for what is about to happen.”

“What’s about to happen?” I ask, but I’m distracted because I notice something that makes my pulse shift sharply to my temples. Emma has a small pink seashell tattooed on her inner right wrist. Exactly the same as my mom’s.

“FIRE IN THE HOLE!” The jubilant voice comes from the top of the stairs, and suddenly I’m being assailed by colorful orbs—dozens of colorful orbs—that pour from the ceiling while tiny voices cheer and yell. I stumble backward, trying to dodge whatever is happening; my brain can’t seem to recognize what they are.

Emma’s hand is suddenly on my arm. “Balloon drop,” she says.

Balloons. The colorful orbs are balloons. What is wrong with me? My heart is racing so fast, I may as well be sprinting.

“Release the stars!” a girl’s voice yells. Before I can react, gold star-shaped confetti rains down on me, coating my hair and T-shirt. Suddenly the ground is unsteady beneath me, the Morgans’ glittery celebration swaying in my peripheral vision. There are so many stars.

Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.

Kate/Kaitlin claps her hands. “How fun!”

“You okay?” Emma asks. She reaches out to grab my arm, and when I look down, there’s her tattoo again. I give up on trying to pretend this is a normal foster care placement. This is absolutely nothing like my other foster homes. Blood is rushing to my head, my pulse throbbing. I step away from her, stumbling over balloons as I attempt to brush stars from my hair and body.

“Fine,” I mumble. I just need to get my bearings.

“Come on down, girls!” Simon yells. “Nova. You too. Don’t disappear on us.”

I thought I’d already hit maximum sensory overload, but as the girls tumble down the stairs, I hit it for sure. Knowing there are four of them is very different than experiencing the four of them. They’re a herd. A gaggle. And so noisy. A couple dozen elbows and knees and lots and lots and lots of hair clatter down, and it takes my eyes a minute to process that they all are, in fact, separate, not just one cluster.