The Baxter house smelled like coffee, bacon, and a suspicious amount of Mandy's perfume drifting down the stairs like fog over a lake. Vanessa flipped pancakes with battlefield focus while shouting up for Eve to find both shoes and—"for the love of breakfast"—a brush. Mike sat at the counter with Outdoor Man sales pulled up on his laptop, muttering something about how "real men eat steak for breakfast and don't apologize to the oat lobby."
Life in the Baxter habitat was normal. Predictably loud. Comfortably chaotic.
Then the front door creaked open.
Boots hit hardwood. A small gust of November air slipped into the kitchen with the smell of pine pitch and road dust. A deep, amused voice followed it in, the kind that could talk a bear out of a bad mood.
"Smells like civilization," the voice said.
Vanessa froze mid-flip. Mike's hand paused around his coffee mug. Eve peered around the corner; Mandy peeked over the stair rail with her phone already camera-ready.
Michael James Baxter Jr. stood in the doorway—older, broader, and unmistakably himself—only everyone called him MJ. The name fit. So did the look: a red sleeveless hoodie thrown over a fitted gray tee, glasses framing sharp eyes behind square black rims, a neatly kept ginger-brown beard, thick forearms braided with old field scars. Blue over-ear headphones rested around his neck like a travel halo. He looked like a man who wrestled problems for a living and laughed about the bruises later.
A camera bag hung off one shoulder; in the other hand he carried a travel crate with a nervous owl glaring out from inside. He grinned like the sun had just decided to be a person.
"Miss me?"
"MJ!" Vanessa was across the room in a heartbeat, hugging him so hard the owl hooted in protest.
Mike rose slower, arms folding, face doing its best impression of unimpressed. "Son, you leave for a few years chasing crocodiles and customs agents, and you walk back into my house with a bird."
MJ tilted the crate so the kitchen could get a better look. "Correction—a rescued owl. Name's Athena. She's family."
"Great," Mike said. "Another mouth that regurgitates dinner."
Mandy thudded down the last steps in fuzzy pink slippers, eyes wide. "Wait—you're back? As in my brother who let a monkey steal his hat and three million people watched?"
"Guilty," MJ said.
Eve's tough face cracked into a grin. "Holy crap—big bro's back!"
She launched into him. He caught her easily with one arm and spun once, the owl hooting again like a judge banging a gavel.
"You get taller or am I shrinking?" he asked.
"Both," Eve said, punching his shoulder lightly, then eyeing the crate. "Please tell me the bird's house-trained."
"Please tell me your room is," he shot back.
Kristin came in from the dining room balancing Boyd on her hip and a spatula in her free hand. She stopped, surprise giving way to relief that softened her whole face. Boyd squealed at the sight of the owl.
"Wow," MJ said, eyes flicking from his sister to the toddler. "Last time I saw you, you were talking about prom and college applications. Now you're making pancakes and burping a human." He lifted a brow with that familiar, wicked sparkle. "I hear prom night got a little… eventful?"
Kristin's look could have melted ice. "Nice to see you too, brother."
Mike cleared his throat. "Son, maybe not your strongest icebreaker."
MJ raised a peaceable hand, grin staying put. "Hey, I'm impressed. You've got a kid, a job, and you're operating heavy breakfast machinery before ten A.M. I barely remember how to pay bills."
Kristin couldn't help it—she laughed. "You're unbelievable."
"Baxter trait," he said. He set a tiny plush meerkat on the table in front of Boyd. "Brought gifts. Ethically sourced uncle bribes."
Boyd squealed louder, banging the toy.
Vanessa wiped at her eyes, still beaming. "What are you doing here, sweetheart? Your email said Madagascar."
"Finished early," MJ said, easing the crate to the floor and taking in the kitchen like a man inhaling home. "Got tired of dodging snakes and airport security. Figured I'd bring the adventure home." He looked at Mike and flashed a teasing salute. "Missed you too, AirFather."
"Don't call me a drone," Mike said, but his mouth betrayed him with a smirk. "Define 'adventure.'"
"I'm opening a wildlife sanctuary," MJ said. "Right here on the edge of the estates. Rescue, rehab, release, education. I'm calling it The Baxter Reserve."
Silence landed. Even Athena blinked.
Mandy recovered first. "So… like a zoo?"
"More like a hospital camp with better views," MJ said. "A place where kids meet animals safely and we teach people how to live alongside wildlife."
Mike set his coffee down like it might jump. "So… a zoo without cages that'll cost me a fortune when it escapes."
"Relax, Dad," MJ said. "I've got investors, permits, and a business plan thicker than your Outdoor Man catalog."
Vanessa clasped her hands. "That's wonderful! You could partner with Outdoor Man."
"Don't volunteer me yet," Mike said, which in Mike meant I'm already thinking about it.
Eve leaned on MJ's arm, eyes bright. "Can I help? I can do feeding. Or security. Preferably security with feeding."
"Deal," MJ said. "But raccoons hug first, ask questions never."
Mike pointed his mug. "No raccoons in my truck."
"Then don't park near my sanctuary."
Kristin shifted Boyd to the other hip, regained her big sister posture, and raised an eyebrow at him. "For your record, I'm the oldest here."
MJ looked at Boyd, deadpan. "And yet you're the one who already has a two-year-old. Technically, that makes me an uncle before I learned how taxes actually work."
"Don't remind me," Kristin said, but there was a smile tucked behind it.
MJ's gaze sharpened a shade. "So," he said, softer but edged, "I heard the father ran out." He tilted his head, that dangerous-mischief look in his eyes—the one Mike himself used to wear when boys came to the door. "Where is this guy? I'd love to meet him."
"Easy, Junior," Mike said. "We try not to open the day with homicide."
"I'm fine," Kristin said, patting Boyd's back. "We're doing just fine."
"I know," MJ said. The edge melted, leaving only warmth. "I just don't like the idea of some guy thinking he can walk out on a Baxter."
Eve grinned. "You are Dad 2.0."
"Better beard though," MJ said, rubbing his jaw.
Vanessa clapped once, as if corralling feral puppies. "Alright! Breakfast first, vendettas later."
They migrated to the table. MJ slid the headphones off his neck, hooked them on his chair, and took the plate Vanessa handed him like it was a trophy. He ate like a man who'd been living on trail bars and luck.
"So," he said between bites, scanning the family with that quick, curious spark, "what's everybody been up to while I've been out getting chased by crocodiles? How's the homeland?"
"School. Softball. Trying not to get grounded," Eve said.
"I'm developing a fashion line," Mandy said. "Well… an idea for one. Okay, a mood board, but it's going to be huge."
"I work," Kristin said. "I parent. I occasionally sleep."
"You're all over-achievers," MJ said, proud and teasing at once. He turned to Mike. "And what about you, AirFather? How's Outdoor Man? I checked out your vlogs in the outback. Still lecturing the internet about how real men use pocketknives and common sense?"
"Somebody has to keep the world from turning into indoor cats," Mike said. "The vlog's fine. The store's better. We move ten thousand of those pocketknives a month."
"Then the apocalypse will be well-equipped," MJ said.
"When civilization collapses," Mike said, pointing a fork, "we'll be the ones with tents, jerky, and a rewards program."
Vanessa rolled her eyes fondly. "He's been saying that in every vlog since 2012."
MJ lifted his coffee like a toast. "You've got good camera presence, Dad. Half your comments call you the John Wayne of YouTube."
"The other half call him Boomer Batman," Mandy said.
"That's why I filter the comments," Mike muttered.
Laughter ricocheted off the cabinets, warm as the griddle. MJ let it wash through him. "You know," he said, quieter, "I watched those vlogs in the middle of nowhere. Weirdly comforting hearing Dad rant about camping gear while I was sleeping next to a rhino."
"That's because deep down, you missed me," Mike said.
"Maybe," MJ said. "Or the rhino just snores like you."
Vanessa laughed hardest; Mike fought a smile and lost. Athena hooted like she agreed with whoever was winning.
"Where are you staying?" Vanessa asked, practical again. "And please tell me it's not 'a tree.'"
"Guest room works," MJ said. "Athena's crate will keep the peace. And I've already got staging going for the sanctuary—leased two acres on the edge of the estates. Temporary rehab pens, solar fencing, med shed. Permits are signed. Grand opening in a few months if we keep momentum."
"You already started?" Mike asked.
MJ nodded. "Got sick of asking permission from people who've never touched a wild thing. So I built it, then asked nicely. Turns out: nicer works better after it's already standing."
Mike blew out a breath that sounded suspiciously like pride disguised as exasperation. "You're definitely my kid."
"Only when it's convenient," MJ said, grinning.
Vanessa topped off his coffee. "You look good, honey. Healthy."
"Field-strong," he said. "Strong enough to carry Mom's groceries and Dad's ego."
"Watch it," Mike said.
Eve nudged MJ. "Tell them about the raccoon."
"Ralphie," MJ said solemnly. "Fell out of a tree as a kit, I bottle-fed him, he imprinted. He lives in my shed when I'm stateside. We have a healthy boundary: I pay rent in granola."
"No raccoons in my garage," Mike said.
"No promises," MJ said. "Ralphie can pick locks."
Vanessa set another stack of pancakes on the table, the universal Baxter signal that the emotional part of the conversation should take a breath. Plates traded hands. Boyd fed the meerkat plush a blueberry and declared it satisfied.
MJ watched them all—the noise, the teasing, the thousand small ways this family kept itself upright—and a calm smile unfurled on his face, the kind you earn after too many airports and not enough dinners at home.
"Alright," he said, pushing back from the table with that restless energy that always meant project time. "Here's my pitch: Outdoor Man sponsors weekend family classes at the sanctuary—tracking, first aid, coexistence with urban wildlife. Mandy handles merch design. Kristin wrangles food trucks for opening weekend. Eve runs security demos that scare just enough people. Mom consults on community outreach. Dad—" He looked at Mike, mischief sparking. "—Dad co-hosts the launch vlog with me."
Mike took a measured sip of coffee. "I don't hug animals on camera."
"You don't have to," MJ said. "Just stand next to me so people know this chaos runs in the family."
Vanessa clasped her hands again, eyes misting for the second time. "I love it."
Mike set down his mug. The corners of his mouth twitched. "Long as it doesn't involve a bear in my garage, kid… I'm in."
"No promises, Pops," MJ said, shouldering the camera bag. "But I did name one of the rehab pens The Mike Baxter Habitat."
"What's in it?"
"Two badgers," MJ said, deadpan. "And a stubborn raccoon."
Kristin snorted. Mandy snapped a selfie with MJ leaning in, Athena photobombing with a regal glare. Eve bumped MJ's shoulder, already asking about volunteer shifts and tranquilizer training ("the legal kind, Mom!"). Vanessa slid a key across the counter—their key, the only key that mattered—and MJ closed his hand over it like it was fragile.
For the first time in a long time, the explorer felt like he'd finally returned to the wildest habitat of all.
Home.