Wynonna strolled over and threw her arm around my shoulder. “Hey, we’re family now, remember? Of course we’re sure!”

As my family burbled with elation, Wynonna winked at me.

I couldn’t help feeling like she was the greatest thing that ever happened to me.

We did our best to endure IHOP with my family. On the one hand, it was wonderful. I couldn’t remember the last time my family ate out together.

On the other hand, well… Wynonna.

She scarfed down her food as a sort of anxious reaction to the situation, then spent the rest of dinner twiddling her thumbs with existential dread.

As we finished eating, Mom insisted on paying for everyone’s meal. Wynonna, Holden, and Imogen thanked her. As the waiter ran Mom’s card, I asked if I could hang out with my friends a bit longer.

My parents—thrilled to be asked permission for anything—said yes.

At first, Holden, Imogen, and I waited around the corner of the building hallway—peeking, of course—while Wynonna knocked on the door. After knocking for the third time, she whipped out her phone and attempted calling instead. He didn’t pick up.

At this point, Holden’s, Imogen’s, and my attempt at hiding had kind of fizzled out.

As Roscoe’s voice mail played, Wynonna dropped her arms and gave me a desperate “What now?” look.

“We could kick his door down,” Holden suggested. “I’ve actually been studying Jack Bauer’s technique. I think the trick is to become one with the door—”

“OH, COME ON,” said Imogen.

“The door is like water,” Holden continued, undeterred, “and when you kick, you want to kick through it, like it doesn’t exist. I think it helps if your daughter has been kidnapped, and you’re fueled by the fury of justice—”

A door opened—suddenly, brashly—causing all of us to jump.

It wasn’t Roscoe’s door.

Rather, it was Roscoe’s next-door neighbor to the right. He was huge, wearing an apron dusted with flour strapped over an orange Bears jersey, and—I swear to god—oven mitts on both hands.

“Can I help you?” he said, in an irritated tone that indicated the opposite. His voice was André the Giant–deep, but his accent was embedded in the roots of Chicaaahgo.

“Sorry,” said Wynonna. “We’re trying to get ahold of my dad.”

“Dad?” said André the Bears Fan. “Who, Roscoe?”

All four of us nodded our heads eagerly.

André’s eyes narrowed to skeptical slits. “Roscoe doesn’t have any kids.”

“Um, well, he does,” said Wynonna, annoyed. “I just stopped living with him when he went to prison, thanks.”

“No shit,” said André, genuinely flabbergasted. “Damn. Well… Jesus, I don’t know how to tell you this. He just moved all his things out.”

“What?” I said. “When?”

“This afternoon.”

My heart plunged.

Wynonna opened her mouth—wordless, breathless.