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“He thinks he’s going to win,” she says.

“Win what?”

She turns toward me with a feral smile. Oh no.

The house smells like browned butter, roasted herbs, apples, cinnamon, and a yeastiness. Suddenly, my stomach remembers I’ve been living mostly on caffeine and spite since breakfast.

The interior also mirrors the Rockwell painting. Old hardwood with wide trim. A quilt thrown over the back of the sofa. Books stacked beside chairs. Framed landscapes, old farm prints, and generations of school crafts and holiday decorations crowd the walls and shelves. Nothing matches. Everything belongs.

Pictures of Gage are everywhere. Tiny Gage missing his front teeth. Gage around twelve, holding a chicken, so serious, I’d assume someone entrusted him with nuclear codes. Teenage Gage beside an older man I assume is Grandpa, both filthy from whatever they were repairing. Gage and Maisie in the barn with a box of kittens between them.

I stop. “Oh, my God.”

Maisie follows my gaze. “Don’t say a thing.”

Teenage Maisie is tiny, her dark bob slightly longer than now, her features conveying how humanity has disappointed her. She’s clutching two kittens to her chest.

I point. “You were adorable.”

“Your approval rating is in danger.”

“You’re still adorable.”

Gage returns with a covered baking dish just as his mother, Paula, appears from the kitchen carrying serving bowls. “You should see the yearbook pictures.”

“Mom.” Gage seems genuinely alarmed.

I may never leave.

Dinner becomes noise and chaos. Nana, who insists I call her Nana Noreene, has made roast chicken with garden-grown herbs, mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, homemade rolls, and enough food for a siege.

Gage sits to my right. I notice an empty chair beside Maisie on the other side of the table, but Paula keeps adding servings to my plate while asking about Saint Violet, my digital trespassing, my mother, and Marzipan’s treason.

“She sleeps on my head now,” I say.

Gage points his fork at me. “She does not sleep on your head.”

I elbow him. “She sleeps adjacent to my head.”

“She uses your hair as a pillow.”

“Because she loves me.” I beam.

Paula laughs into her napkin.

Nana Noreene leans toward me. “He and Maisie used to bring every injured thing on the property into this house.”

“Mostly Maisie,” Gage corrects. “Birds, rabbits, cats.”

“Mostly cats,” Maisie agrees over her coffee.

I wave my fork toward the porch. “And they all stay outside now?”

Paula nods. “I’m mildly allergic. We still feed the barn cats and keep an eye on them.”

Maisie cuts into her chicken. “And I occasionally steal the adoptable ones.”

“Steal?”