It smelled of greasy fast food and baby powder.

Directly in front of me, the entryway was completely blocked.

Three massive duffel bags were piled against the wall, their zippers straining against overpacked clothes.

A collapsible plastic stroller sat open near the coat rack, mud still wet on its plastic wheels, dripping onto the antique hardwood floor.

My grandmother’s hand-woven runner rug had been kicked into a crumpled heap in the corner.

“Oh, look who’s home!”

Rylan walked out of the kitchen, a glass of amber liquid in his hand.

He was wearing his favorite soft sweater, the one I had bought him for his birthday, looking entirely at ease.

There was a smug, victorious curve to his mouth that he quickly smoothed out into a polite smile.

“We were beginning to think your shift got extended,” he said.

Before I could answer, a man stepped out of the living room behind him.

It was Pax, Rylan’s cousin.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore a faded flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

“Hey, Calla,” Pax said, offering a casual nod. “Long time no see.”