“Shut the door,” I gasp, even though it isn’t strictly necessary. We’re inside a private residence now, and whatever’s out there can’t come in—but Adriana does it anyway, her face turning white in an instant.

“What is it, what’s going on? Is one of them out there?”

We both look through the window, but all we see are Daphne’s taillights disappearing up the street. The feeling is gone, too, and maybe it was never there in the first place. “I don’t … I thought … I don’t know what I thought. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Adriana lets out a breath and smiles. “I get it. I almost killed Abuela’s bathrobe earlier because I thought it was a vampire.”

The day we met, in third grade, I was quietly having a panic attack in the middle of class because our teacher told us—very casually—that one day the sun would explode and devour Earth, and Adriana reached over, put her hand on top of mine, and gave me this same look. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to. Where no one else had seen my distress, she had, and she wanted me to know I wasn’t alone.

“Is that Auggie?” a brassy voice yells from across the house. “Come into the kitchen, mijito. I need a hug!”

If there’s one thing I don’t like about my family, it’s that Ximena Rosales is not technically part of it. Just like Adriana, she welcomed me with open arms from day one. When I came out, my best friend was the first person I told; Ximena was the second. Tonight, I find her at the stove, tending to a pan of sizzling vegetables, the air thick as velvet with the scents of garlic, cumin, and oregano.

Adriana’s grandmother hugs me hard enough to crack my thoracic vertebrae, and then immediately shoos me away from the range. “I’m in the middle of something here,” she says, indicating the stove. “This is gonna blow your mind, kid. Chiles rellenos, champiñones al ajillo, and my famous rice!”

“Guacamole, too, right?” I try not to sound demanding, but it’s hard, because I’m being demanding. There are shallots and jalapeños on the counter, and a bowl of avocados is perched atop the fridge. “If you’re busy, I can help. Just tell me the recipe, and—”

“Not a chance, cabron.” Ximena fixes me with The Eye. She’s sixty-five, in a beige turtleneck and wire-framed glasses, but only a fool would assume she’s harmless. “You’re gonna have to wait until I’m dead to learn that recipe—and I left instructions for my lawyer to destroy it if I die under suspicious circumstances, entiendes?”