Carys grimaced. “I knew exactly who it was too. Little shit. Anyway, the square was good. Teacup and I hit the jackpot with some kind of water polo team. What the hell even is water polo? But they were buzzing with performative testosterone and loudly wanted pictures with Teacup and to ask me math problems, so I raked it in.”

“Suffer from their creepiness in class, take their money after,” Greta said.

“Exactly,” Carys replied.

“So where are we going?” Greta asked as they began to walk.

Veronica balanced a large jug of what Greta presumed was her lemonade on her shoulder, so Greta hoped they weren’t walking too far.

“Our friend Rae house-sits for this family. The husband is some kind of tech dude, and the wife owns an art gallery here and one in LA. They go to California all the time, and they have a pool, so Rae will have us over. It’s pretty sweet.”

The house was tucked behind a gate that surrounded overgrown shrubs whose tendrils crowded the path to the front door. It looked unassuming and modest through the foliage—nothing you’d notice from the street. In fact, Greta realized she’d walked past this corner several times since she’d arrived and never noticed it.

Helen opened the unlocked door, and they entered another world.

Inside was cool and serene, and Greta found herself in a foyer that more closely resembled a gallery than a hallway. There were canvases hung salon style on both walls, from paintings so tiny they appeared to be done with a single strand of hair to photographs blown up to the size of a door.

And there, in the middle of the wall… Greta gasped.

“Is that…that’s not an original Mimi Nakaya?”

“Yup,” Carys said.

“Holy shit.”

Greta walked gingerly into the living room, as if there might be famous, priceless objects lying on the floor and she didn’t want to step on them.

The house opened up into room after room, nothing like the shotgun style that Greta had become accustomed to. It had clearly been gutted and renovated, its modern open plan a showcase for the many objets d’art that stood on pillars and shelves as well as lining the walls.

“Eleventh House!” someone called. “Yay!”

“Hey, Rae,” Helen began, but before Greta could turn to see their host, someone else yelled too.

“Incoming!”

Greta heard a sound that she couldn’t place. A strange low snuffling that moved close to the ground.

Suddenly, from around the corner, running straight toward them, came the source of the noise.

A pig.

“What the—” Greta got out before Carys and Helen both knelt and stopped the pig in its tracks.

“Hi, Madame Snortface,” Carys said affectionately.

“Well, hello, Snoots McPigfeet,” Helen chimed in.

They both patted the pig on its sides and scritched between its ears.

Greta turned to Veronica questioningly.