Bastards.

“Well?” April pressed. “If you could have anything you wanted for dinner on your birthday, what would it be?”

“I don’t know,” Maizy replied. “Pizza, I guess.”

A smile touched April’s lips. Maizy’s love for pizza was no secret, so that’s what they’d been planning. They were going to take her to Pizza Zone and do the whole cake, ice cream, and presents there. Then she could play with some of the other human children.

Denver shouldered the front door open. “Come help me eat this thing,” he said to Maizy while carrying a large green watermelon.

He set it behind Wheeler and began slicing wedges with a large butcher knife.

“That’s going to attract ants,” April said, watching the juice spill onto the porch and drip through the cracks.

“I thought all the ants were in your pants,” he said.

Maizy giggled and took the wedge he handed her.

“Hold on, Peanut. Let me show you how to eat a watermelon proper.”

“There’s a proper way?” Wheeler asked with amusement. “This I need to see.”

Denver ran his hand through his wavy blond hair, slicking it back with the sticky juice from his fingers. He stood up and leaned against the railing. “Damn right there’s a way you’re supposed to eat these. Watch and learn from the master.”

Maizy glanced up at Denver with inquisitive blue eyes, waiting to see what he was going to do. Denver mashed his face in the sweet melon and Maizy smiled, setting her piece on top of the ledge before the juice ran all the way up her arm.

When Denver lifted his face, a rivulet of pink juice dribbled down his chin. He chewed a few times and then spit the black seeds across the lawn.

“Holy smokes, Denver! That’s disgusting!” April shot out of her chair and went inside.

Wheeler grinned when Maizy tried to imitate Denver, except she spit the entire bite of melon out. Undeterred, she tried again.

“Don’t swallow the seeds, whatever you do.”

“Why not?” she asked with a mouthful of fruit.

“Because,” Denver replied in a deadpan voice, “you’ll grow a watermelon in your belly.”

Her eyes widened. “Nuh-uh.”

Wheeler stood up and went inside the house. He headed upstairs to his bedroom and closed the door, immersing himself in darkness. A few of the rooms were in the center of the house and didn’t have windows. He liked it there. Everyone else had chosen the outer halls and it gave him privacy.

After locking the door, Wheeler paced toward his desk and switched on the green lamp. He straightened up a few papers before relaxing in his leather office chair—the one with a small tear in the seat. Sometimes he’d poke his finger at it, even knowing it would get bigger, but he found solace in that small imperfection. His chair didn’t feel any less comfortable, and yet most people would have thrown it out and replaced it because of that defect.

Voices drifted up from the lower level, and someone ran down the hall. By the heavy footfalls, it sounded like one of his brothers.