I know all this because Ginger talked a lot on the car ride home. She talked until I actually fell asleep standing in the doorway to my new room. But now I’m not so tired. And this new place is… scary. The carpet is too soft and thick and it makes all the other sounds in the house too quiet, like they’re being smothered. My room is too bright and alien compared to our cozy truck. I miss my red sleeping bag. I miss hearing the sound of the waves lapping on the shore of the lake. I even miss Mom’s smoky smell.

I creep downstairs, thinking maybe I’ll step outside for a minute to catch my breath, but then I hear someone banging around in the kitchen. It’s too loud. I shake my head, take a step back, and bump into Dan. I bite the inside of my cheek. How can this house be so big and so crowded at the same time?

He smiles sheepishly. “Hey there,” he says, folding a half-marked-up crossword puzzle under his arm. He was coming out of “the study,” which is basically a room lined floor to ceiling with books. He’s in a plaid button-down and jeans and moccasins. He looks like an L.L. Bean advertisement.

“Hey.”

“You hungry? Ginger decided she’s Martha Stewart today, so we’re finally using all the pots and pans we got for our wedding, five years later.”

I tuck my hands inside the sleeves of my sweatshirt and stare at my feet. I wonder if Mom even knows Ginger is married. She must if she had a number to put on her emergency contact sheet.

“You know, we could, uh, wash those for you.” He points at my clothes. “Or take you shopping if you don’t like what Ginger picked out.”

“Uh, maybe later.”

I refuse to change into the leggings and black sweater Ginger set out for me on my dresser, no matter how soft they are. This sweatshirt and jeans are the last things I have from home. It’s what I was wearing the last time I saw Mom.

“Breakfast! Or lunch or brunch or whatever it is!” Ginger calls from the kitchen, and I’m glad for the escape.

The big wooden table in the kitchen seats eight, and there are already places set for us with a vase of pansies in the middle. It’s so formal, I’m afraid I’m going to break something. I miss Mom’s Styrofoam boxes of cold hash browns with a dash of Tabasco, just the way I like them.

I wait until they both sit so I know where to go. In front of us are steaming plates of eggs and bacon and blueberry muffins. I consider not eating, out of solidarity with Mom, but my stomach growls so loud it sounds like a dog under the table.