Emma immediately vanished back down with a strangled yelp.
"I'm moving out," Sarah declared to the wall. "I'm eighteen, I'll emancipate myself, and I'm becoming a nun."
"Nuns take vows of silence," I pointed out.
"PERFECT."
Twenty minutes later we cleaned up, the kitchen sounded like a cooking show hosted by someone mid–mental breakdown. Pots clanged, knives chopped, and Mom had downgraded from Slipknot to aggressively cheerful pop music—because nothing screams "everything's fine" like Taylor Swift at maximum volume.
"Lunch!" Mom shouted, in a voice that was definitely not three decibels away from a nervous breakdown. "Everyone come eat! Now!"
No arguments. We gathered at the island like survivors at FEMA rations, the collective vibe: we lived through something we can never speak of again.
