Simon’s voice comes up the stairs, breaking me out of my reverie. “Mason? Breakfast time.”

Breakfast is apparently a requirement at this house. I grab my notebook and astrophysics book, then stand at the door for several moments, willing myself to open it. Might as well get this over with.

The hallway and stairs are a land mine of Barbies and plastic baby dolls, and I move slowly, trying not to step on anything whose head could pop off. I’ve made my way toward the entryway when I spot Nova.

Seeing Nova outside of her bedroom is like catching sight of a rare bird. She’s sitting on the couch with her feet propped up on the coffee table, a center-less cinnamon roll perched next to her, her giant headphones secured firmly to her head. As usual, seeing her angry silhouette makes me feel protective—I don’t understand Nova, but I do understand how angry she is. I spend a lot of time in that space too.

“Hey, Nova,” I say.

I can tell she’s heard me by the way her shoulders tense, but she doesn’t turn around. According to Zoe, Nova normally lives with her mom in Worcester, with every other weekend here in Salem, but this summer her mom is traveling a lot for work, so she’s spending the entire summer with her dad. I think it’s a genuine toss-up for who wants to be here least. If there was any possibility of it, I’d say we should form an alliance. As it is, I’m lucky if I’ll get her to ever make eye contact with me. I don’t try again.

In the kitchen, Simon is standing in front of the stove, wearing running clothes, sneakers, and an apron. He’s beaming, his energy radiating off the walls. “Good morning, Mason! Cinnamon roll? I make them every Saturday, always with a twist. This week is maple-flavored dough with crumbled bacon on top. Want to give it a try?”

I’m not much of a breakfast eater, and the thought of eating frosting this early makes me slightly queasy, but I’m not quite sure how to tell him that. Also, fancy cinnamon rolls are a whole lot better than some of the breakfasts I’ve been forced to eat. “Thanks,” I mumble.

He slides the plate to me, and objectively this is a great-looking cinnamon roll, but it takes all my willpower to manage a small bite.

The flavors are okay together, the crunchy bacon balancing out the sweetness of the frosting, but it’s still more than I can handle. Simon is waiting for my reaction. “Nice, right?”

I force myself to swallow against a wave of nausea. “Really nice.”