“We’ve got to get more creative,” said Héctor. “There has to be a way for us to use this Room to our advantage.”

“I read a lot of science fiction,” said Sal. “And I wonder if maybe we need to think . . . bigger? More theoretical?”

“What does that mean?” said Juliana.

Sal took a deep breath. “I need to feel like I belong,” they said.

Héctor froze. “Whoa,” he said.

“That’s deep,” said Juliana.

Sal’s eyes went glassy. “Well, it’s true,” they said. “I know that’s why I found this Room in the first place.”

Maybe that’s why I found it, too, Héctor thought, but he didn’t share that with the others. But how did it know? How could that possibly be true?

“Well, I think you belong right here,” said Juliana. “With us.”

“Really?” said Sal, their glassy eyes lighting up.

“Yeah,” she said, then turned to Héctor. “Both of you. It seems that we all feel safe here, so . . . maybe that’s a sign. Maybe this place already gave you what you needed, Sal.”

They smiled. “I like the sound of that.”

And as the three of them tried (and mostly failed) to get the Room to grant them every absurd thing they could wish for, Héctor realized that he liked the sound of that, too.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Héctor’s abuela had plans for him that weekend, and they filled him with anxiety:

A Muñoz family day of making tamales.

Héctor hoped his second attempt would be better than his first, but as Papi pulled his car into Abuela’s driveway, doubt crept back under Héctor’s skin. He’d already abandoned the idea of becoming the famous twelve-year-old tamale vendor of Orangevale. All he wanted to do was just make his papi y abuela proud.

The three of them sat around the dinner table in Abuela’s brightly decorated home. There was art all over the walls. Colors and patterns clashed, like every item had its own personality. Héctor’s favorite were the matching sugar skulls on a shelf on the wall in the living room, each of them intricately painted.

He tried to let the creativity in the room seep into his bones, as if the walls let out a magic he could absorb. If only, he thought, as his abuela set out all the ingredients on the table: Chicken, seasoned and cooked until it fell apart in Héctor’s hands. Masa. Las hojas.

You can do this, he told himself.

Héctor watched his papi and abuela make a few tamales, their hands moving quickly and delicately as they assembled them. Again, it seemed so effortless! How were they able to do that so fast?