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“No.” She shakes her head slightly. “Happy loud.”

The truck goes quiet after that, because, apparently, five year olds occasionally say things devastating enough to emotionally uppercut entire groups of adults.

Briggs clears his throat roughly. “Yeah, kid.”

I stare out the passenger window before anyone can look directly at me.

Happy loud.

I know exactly what she means.

When we get inside the house, Lucy almost falls asleep standing in the hallway while trying to explain something important about Fletcher dropping a hotdog into the fire.

“He called it a sac… ifice,” she murmurs after I carry her upstairs and help her into her pajamas.

“That sounds accurate.”

“And Miss June said he’s banned from cooking during windy conditions.”

“Also fair.”

Her little hands fumble sleepily with Bun when I pull the duvet back.

Tonight she climbs into bed without resistance. No anxiety. No checking whether I’m leaving immediately afterward. Just tired trust.

That realization settles somewhere painfully inside my chest while I carefully tuck the duvet around her and Bun. Bernard and Foxy are sitting together on the nightstand, keeping vigil.

“You had fun tonight?” I ask.

Lucy nods against the pillow.

“Even with all the people?”

Another nod. Then, after a pause, “I like your friends.”

I look away before Lucy notices my expression.

“They’re not really—” I stop.

Because I don’t know how to finish that sentence anymore.

Lucy watches me through sleepy half closed eyes. “Ashby makes you smile different.”

I nearly choke on absolutely nothing. “What?”

“And Torin looks sad when you leave the room.”

Incredible. I’m being emotionally manipulated by a kindergartner.

“And Briggs watches doors until you walk in.”

I stare at her.

She stares back calmly.

Children shouldn't notice this much. It feels medically concerning.

“Go to sleep,” I mutter weakly.