“Daniel’s here! Daniel’s here!” Marco goes yelling into the kitchen after conceding the towel to his sister. “And he brought a girl.”

The teenager setting the table looks up. “Hold on,” she says into her phone, setting it on the table. She runs up and gives Daniel a hug, then turns to me.

“Brittni, this is Cat. Cat, Brittni with an i not a y.”

“Shut up,” she says, punching him in the shoulder. “It’s nice to meet you, Cat.”

“Yeah,” I stammer. “You too.” I notice her nails are flawless and long as railway spikes. I wonder how she manages to hold her phone, or text, or type, or anything for that matter. But her smile is as warm as melted butter, and she looks at Daniel the way a kid sister looks at an older brother she adores.

She ducks back to the table to resume the silverware placement. I hear her pick up her phone and say, “You are not gonna believe this,” as we turn toward the kitchen.

“You know the twins already. The little one is Matthew, and that’s my uncle Charlie on the sofa, and my aunt Tiff’s boyfriend, Victor.” Daniel points them out. Both men nod and smile in succession but don’t bother with more than that.

A woman pops up in the doorway of the kitchen before we can reach it with both hands on her hips. A damp dish towel hangs from one hand, and she is squinting at us over the top of her readers. She’s short and a little stooped to boot, but she seems to fill the whole doorway with her presence. “Daniel, is that you, baby?”

“It’s me, Mawmaw,” he says, giving her a swift hug. “I brought someone.”

“I know,” she replies, looking me up and down.

Marco appears behind her. “Because I told you, huh, Mawmaw?”

“No, you foolish child, not ’cause you told me. Because Brittni dropped a fork on her way to the table, that’s why.”

Daniel’s grandmother is tan where he is brown. Her eyes are the color of a deep pond—green where they should be brown and brown where they should be green—and her hair is gathered atop her head in loose, orange curls. She wears dangling wooden earrings shaped like leaves, and a starched white blouse with a stiff collar. The frames of her readers are a bright purple. They hang on a little gold chain around her neck when she takes them off.

“And who are you?” she asks me pointedly.

“Mawmaw, this is Cat,” Daniel tells her.

“Was I asking you?” Her eyes widen at him.

“No, ma’am. But—”

“But nothing. Let the girl speak for herself.” She looks at me. “You have a tongue, don’t you?”