“Want to go inside and grab a bite before we go?” I ask Conor. I’d much rather head out to anywhere but here, but I need to change out of my paint-splattered clothes, and unfortunately, I don’t have a spare outfit in the car. Conor’s the one person I still allow inside my house—not that anyone else is beating down the door.

Conor shrugs. “Sure.”

We make our way inside and it’s dead quiet, as usual. After a moment, I hear faint music start to play from Gwen’s room upstairs, but there’s no sign of my dad anywhere.

In the kitchen, Conor swings a high stool between his legs and rests his elbows on the counter. “Man, my arm is sore. Practice is gonna be a bitch.”

I rummage through the pantry and start tossing random shit in his general direction. “Pretzels. They’re only, like, a couple weeks old. Potato chips…might wanna check the expiration date before you eat ’em. What else?” I stick my head farther into the cabinet. “Oh, sweet. Some old Goldfish. Probably stale as fuck.”

Conor sighs. “What the hell have you guys been doing for food since your mom took this case?”

I snort and turn to face him, leaning back against the fridge, arms crossed. “Since she took this case? Meaning, before this case we were just bursting with fresh fruits and, like, gourmet meals every night?”

He rolls his eyes. “No, but at least before, she was around sometimes. Like more than now…”

I shrug. “Yeah, I guess. Whatever. You know, I grab something for me and Gwen on the way home from school. It’s not like I have anything to do most nights, so I’ve been trying to learn how to cook….”

Conor lets out a huge laugh. “You? Cook? No fuckin’ way, man.”

I shake my head at him; I’d be embarrassed if I were talking to anyone other than Conor. “Yeah. I’m trying. Get over it.” I should have kept my mouth shut, but I hated the way Conor was looking at me, like I’m some poor orphan boy who needs to be rescued. He has no room to talk. It’s not like his home life is a Brady Bunch episode. His dad barely knows he’s alive.

“I’m gonna go change.”

“All right, man, I’ll be here, just chowin’ on these pretzels….” He sticks one in his mouth and starts coughing. “Dude, these are stale AF. Are you kidding? Are you trying to kill me?” He jumps off the stool, runs over to the sink, and starts lapping water from the faucet.

“You’re an idiot. You’ve been here a million times. You should know to expect a certain quality of food. That said, feel free to eat whatever; just, you know, watch out for mold. Be right back.” I smirk at him on my way out the door.