"IS BIGFOOT GAY?"

Malachi sat on the floor of Mila's dorm room, his back against her roommate's desk. His laptop rested on his bent knees. The question broke the silence of the past three hours, but he had to know, and he had to know now. They'd been researching since Malachi got there, the quiet occasionally punctuated by the tapping of their keyboards or an ad that popped out of nowhere. WARNING: hot single moms in your area! Total MILFS! They want you! Badly! Sign up for our Christian e-dating site!

Mila leaned backwards out of her loft bed, peering down at Malachi. "There's not just one Bigfoot. There are multiple bigfeet. Obviously, some of them are gay, you bigot."

"Hmm," Malachi said.

Mila knew exactly what that meant. She jumped down to the floor and sat beside him, crossing her legs in front of her. "You think there's just one."

Malachi ran his thumb over the tiger-print duct tape he'd stuck over his laptop camera. He shrugged.

"How is that sustainable?" Mila's voice rose with every word, and Malachi knew they were minutes away from another RA knocking on her door. "You know he's been around since pre-colonization. How would that even work—is he a god?"

"Alien," Malachi corrected.

"What?" Mila sputtered, leaning in to look at his screen. What was he looking at? What had he read that led him to conclude that Bigfoot was an alien? Some ridiculous Reddit thread? But nope, it was even worse: he was on the Bigfoot Wikipedia page. "We can't use anything you find on there," she reminded him.

Malachi rolled his eyes, slamming his laptop shut. "Fine, fascist."

Mila grabbed his laptop from his lap, opened it, and exited Wikipedia. "We'd lose our credibility!"

"With who?" Malachi replied. "Your mom?"

He hadn't meant it like that. Mila's mom was their biggest—and only—fan. They only had twenty subscribers, and he was pretty sure half of them were burner accounts she'd made. But Mila still took it that way. She lost it, doubling over with laughter. Every other breath came out a howl. Even Malachi couldn't help it. He cracked a grin, shaking his head at her.

"This is a safe space from Wikipedia. And 'your mom' jokes." Mila shoved her legs on top of Malachi's, forcing him to straighten his out. "I'm done with researching for tonight. I'm getting a headache."

"Hmm." Malachi grabbed his laptop back from her and tossed it on the floor. "When will Becca be back?"

Mila's roommate, Becca, was out with her boyfriend, "Chad." No one Mila knew had ever met "Chad." Mila was certain he didn't actually exist. If Becca wouldn't skin her alive over it, she'd make a video trying to find this elusive "Chad."

"She'd be back by now if she was coming back. I bet she's staying the night." Mila wriggled her eyebrows, and Malachi shoved her legs off him with a roll of his eyes.

But this was wonderful news. Malachi liked Becca just fine—everyone did; she had that Valley Girl sickly-sweetness that New Yorkers thought was naive but cute—but if she was at "Chad's," then he could crash here instead of his own dorm. As always, his own roommate would be staying up playing video games in his underwear until dawn. And that was something Malachi did not want to be a part of.

"We should sleep," he suggested.

"Laaaame." Mila got to her feet and reached out to help Malachi to his. "Why don't we head down to that bunker we were researching the other day?"

Malachi stayed put. "Mila, it's three a.m."

"So? I'm wide awake. And it's not like that place is open to the public. We'd be trespassing no matter what time we went. Come on, Malachi. Don't be lame."

"I'm sorry I don't want to get murdered on the subway!"

Mila rolled her eyes. "You could get murdered anytime on the subway. It might be even safer now. Everyone's probably asleep at this time of night."

"Yeah, all the witnesses—the businesspeople and families. It's just the murderers left prowling the streets."

"Hey." Mila smirked like she knew all the secrets of the world, wiggling her hands in front of him. "If we get murdered, we could be featured on Buzzfeed Unsolved. We've just gotta make sure it's grisly enough."

Malachi sighed—a Malasigh, if you will. Mila knew the goal was to be featured on Buzzfeed Unsolved through any means necessary. "Fine," he said. And he let her grab his hands and pull him to his feet.

***

"MILA?" Malachi swung his flashlight and camera down the dark, dank hallway. This was a terrible idea. They should have stayed at home. "Ghosties?"

There it was again—that noise. A long, resounding creaaaaaak that shot goosebumps up Malachi's arms. He swallowed and glanced behind him into the bunker. He saw nothing other than his camera equipment, miscellaneous ghost-hunting gear, and his Ouija board, surrounded by candles. The candles served no purpose other than the aesthetic, and Malachi loved all things aesthetic and spooky. He was also a giant wuss, so the spook factor had him shaking in his boots.

Creaaaaaak. His head whipped back down the hallway. His hands shook, the sweat pooling in his palms making his camera impossible to hold.

"M-Mila?" he asked again of the darkness, hoping she was messing with him. "Is that you?"

He crept down the hallway. It stretched in front of him, the length of a gymnasium, each step illuminating another foot of the concrete floor and gray, metallic walls. His flashlight cast a dim, watery blue light through the darkness, bathing the hall like the sunlight at the bottom of a swimming pool. This place would have been sterile, once. Now it was a petri dish of New York nasty. Malachi stepped over shards of broken beer bottles, small animal carcasses, and unidentifiable puddles of dark fluids. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling. Mold bubbled up over the walls. A rat scurried across the floor, making Malachi jump back.

"G-g-g-ghosties?" Even his voice trembled like a Chihuahua in heat. Wanting to summon Mila out of hiding if it was her (and it better be!), he sputtered out a lame joke: "If... if you're a demon," he mumbled, "please... um... possess me—" Another creak and Malachi nearly peed his pants. His grip on his camera fumbled. "Possess me through my ass," he managed.

Nothing. Malachi's teeth clattered. His heart raced in his chest. His joke didn't pull Mila from hiding, which convinced him he was about to get possessed and had just offered up his favorite body part as an entryway.

"Mila?" Malachi shouted again. He was nearing the end of the hallway. Pretty soon, he'd have to turn the corner and face whatever was making that sound. He glanced back over his shoulder at the bunker. Nothing. Great. He forced himself to inch forward, a chill racing down his spine. Was it always this cold down here...? He pulled his coat tighter around himself.

He rounded the corner as a small, dark shape shot out at him, lunging toward his precious, precious body. White teeth bared at him. Hands flew up to grab him. "HAH!"

Malachi's heart froze. His body shuddered and jumped. He screamed, clinging tight to his camera. If he'd been holding anything less precious, he would have shattered it. "Mila!" he shrieked. "I'm fragile! You can't scare me like that!"

Mila doubled over laughing, clutching her stomach. She could barely breathe from all the laughter. It wasn't funny. But it was three in the morning. Everything was funny.

Mila always dressed straight out of a 2010's Hot Topic ad, in ripped tights and plaid skirts and leather jackets and band t-shirts. When they ghost-hunted, she toned it down a bit, opting instead for an oversized black sweatshirt and black skinny jeans from the little boys' department. Her years in gymnastics kept her petite and athletic, so she could fit in them, no problem. Malachi had never once seen her wear shoes other than Doc Martens, even to the beach, her quinceañera, or when she only left her dorm for five minutes to use the restroom. She wore her curly dark hair long, and kept it in a ponytail more often than she didn't. Her eyeliner was dark and heavy around her intense dark eyes, her lipstick the color of a strawberry burnt by the sun against her light brown skin.

Malachi put a hand to his chest to steady his breathing. He shut his eyes. Being friends with Mila was dangerous, especially for someone as skittish as he was. It was like constantly having a heart attack. At this rate, he'd be on Life Alert by the time they graduated.

Slowly, Mila regained her composure. Wiping tears from her eyes, she straightened herself back up to her full height of a whopping five-foot-two. When Malachi could breathe again, he playfully shoved her into the wall with a roll of his eyes—like an older brother would tease his little sister.

Mila looped her arm around Malachi's waist and swung him toward the bunker. "Everything set up?"

Malachi nodded, still shaking. He gestured at the spirit box in Mila's hands, which looked like a cross between a walkie-talkie and a radio with a glowing red screen. It rifled through uncountable audio channels, allegedly allowing the user to communicate with the undead. "You got anything?"

"Nah—just what I think was the audio to some bad porno." Mila threw on a sultry, high-pitched voice. "Oh, Professor! I would do anything—!"

Malachi laughed. "Maybe it was a horny ghost."

"Hmm! You would have liked that—since when have you wanted a demon to possess you through your ass?"

Of course she'd heard his lame joke and chose not to respond. "Always dreamed of it. Two birds, one stone."

Mila snorted and side-eyed him.

They headed down the hall together, their flashlights swinging side-by-side, one higher than the other. The lights blended together, a grainy white and dull blue. Malachi swung his camera around to catch the top of Mila's bobbing head as they walked. She hummed a jazzy little tune.

"Mila," he chided. "Act serious."

"Right." Mila stepped forward and spun around to face him. "We're a very serious ghost show. Very serious." She winked and spun back around, jumping like a leprechaun and clicking her heels together in mid-air.

Malachi heaved a Malasigh in disapproval. The power of a Malasigh was immense. Mila became all business. She crept down the hall, glancing worriedly over her shoulder every few steps for Malachi's camera.

"Hello?" she shouted into the darkness, á la Zak Bagans. "Is anyone here?" She mumbled to herself, "Fuck am I expecting?" She stepped into the threshold of the bunker and whispered to the camera, all seriousness: "They found the bodies right here when they were digging this bunker." Her eyes lit up as she beckoned Malachi inside. "Three of them. Fifty years dead. No idea who they were or what killed them."

Mila stepped farther into the bunker, slowly examining her surroundings. Malachi filmed her.

"Wow," Mila marvelled. "Creepy."

The concrete floors met the metallic gray walls at the shadowy edges of the room. The bunker itself looked like all the other abandoned, haunted places they'd explored. Everything was a Mess with a capital M. Things were strewn everywhere, unknowable, indecipherable Things with a capital T. Malachi noted a decaying roll of paper towels, an old chair in the corner, a wall of unlabeled tin cans. The space was small, half the size of his dorm room. Malachi felt claustrophobic, and the door was wide open. He couldn't imagine locking yourself down here for months or even years.

"Imagine if something actually had happened in the Cold War." Mila traced the graffiti on the walls. "Imagine being stuck down here for... who knows how long. I'd lose my shit. I'm losing my shit just thinking about it." She shivered and shook her head, knocking loose a few rebellious curls. "You want me to get the spirit box out again or were you just planning on using this?" She nudged the Ouija board with the toe of her Doc Marten.

"That's not mine." Malachi gave her a shit-eating grin. "That was here when I got here."

Mila laughed. "You little shit. I can see right through you."

Malachi laughed right back at her and admitted yes, it was his Ouija board and yes, he did intend on just using it. They'd already gotten enough from the spirit box. Plus, the Ouija board offered an authentic, nostalgic ghost-hunting aesthetic that the spirit box and their other equipment lacked.

Malachi liked getting at least one Ouija session per haunted location. He was pretty sure at least seven demons festered in his body. But it was worth it. For the aesthetic.

Mila plopped down on the cold concrete floor, crossing her legs in front of her. Malachi adjusted his handheld camera on its stand and swapped his flashlight for his GoPro, hooking it to his forehead. He sat on the other side of the board, looking at the letters upside down.

Malachi took a deep breath and they placed their fingers on the planchette.

***

EVERYBODY, HOLD TIGHT. Time for a little bit of time-traveling. No one gets motion sick? Good. Shut up, Jimmie. Grab some Ginger Ale and motion sickness meds. You'll be fine.

Mila swung her backpack over her shoulder. She followed the rest of her class as they funneled out of the lecture hall, holding her phone. She smiled as the screen lit up.

ADRIAN

[ we still on for laser tag? ]

MILA

[ depends ]

[ u still on to lose? ]

ADRIAN

[ in ur dreams little lady >:) ]

[ i'll be right there ]

MILA

[ HURRY UP SLOWPOKE ]

She stumbled out onto the city sidewalk, grinning like an idiot. Just getting one stupid text from Adrian made her feel like she was walking on air. She brushed back a curl that had sprung loose from her ponytail. The weather was balmy, beginning to dip onto the cooler side, which made the air come easier in Mila's lungs. Fall was around the corner. Gray clouds arched above the skyscrapers. She tilted her head back to soak in the cool air and tied her flannel around her waist, exposing the Green Day shirt she'd cut the sleeves off of.

As her classmates trickled out of the lecture hall, Mila kicked her foot against the wall on the side of the door, leaning against it. She waved to her friend Jaime as he headed off to his next class. She drummed her fingers against the bricks, scanning the crowd for Adrian.

His last class ended an hour ago. He could have been here by now, if he'd wanted to. He knew she hated waiting. Her fingers drummed harder against the bricks.

She liked Adrian. He was funny, opinionated, and the smartest person she had ever met. Plus, he was hot. And French. But she had a high bar when it came to boys. One slip-up and she'd end things and never look back.

Mila checked her phone. He wasn't that late. Her class had gotten out a couple minutes early. She had no reason to be upset.

She took a deep breath. In and out. In and out. Just like Becca taught you. She shrugged her backpack off her shoulder, unzipped it, and fumbled around until she found it—her magic 8-ball. She pulled it out, held it in both her hands, and closed her eyes.

She asked herself , "Should I be mad at Adrian Moreau?"

Yes, I mean the Adrian Moreau. Tik-Tok sensation and world-famous e-boy. Mila might have had high standards, but we all have lapses in judgement.

She liked to use full names, and Adrian didn't have a middle name. You wanted to get as specific as possible. It could think you were talking about some other Adrian. She gave it a good shake, the familiar round, cool plastic calming her high-strung nerves.

Her eyes flicked open. OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD. She shook her head. What did that mean? She'd been expecting a simple YES or NO. But her Magic 8-Ball had never led her astray before...

She plopped it back in her backpack.

Spinning around, she noticed a display board tacked to the wall outside the lecture hall. Her eyes trailed over the flyers and announcements tacked to it, club meetings and football games and theatre productions. She skimmed one about some underground band she'd never heard of that was playing a gig next week. Maybe she'd go check them out. Next to it...

A switch flipped in her brain. Everything inside her turned to cotton. Her anger at Adrian for being late, her boredom as she waited on him, her excitement for their date—all of it, gone. Turned to a numbing gel that spread over her heart and her head.

She stared at the flyer. Blood thrummed in her ears. The world around and inside her faded to nothing. The bolded words in the center of the flyer were all that she could see, all that she could see...

SEXUAL ASSAULT SURVIVORS ASSOCIATION - NYU CAMPUS

CLUB MEETING THIS MONDAY

She reached out and tore the flyer from the board, crumbling it up and shoving it in her backpack. She slung her bag over her shoulder as a light, familiar voice called her name. It shook her from her trance with a jolt.

"Mila!"

She spun around. Adrian bounded up to her, his hands behind his back. He looked like every other white e-boy dressed in tight-fitting black jeans, a white-and-black striped t-shirt, and black checkered vans. Silver chains hung from his thick black belt and he had on more silver jewelry than Mila had seen in her entire life. His pale skin flared with cystic acne. He parted his brown hair down the middle, like he'd taken his inspiration from 90's movies. His brown eyes were lined with chunky eyeliner that Mila'd helped him pick out.

"Sorry I was running late." He pulled his arms out in front of him, revealing what he'd been hiding from her: a steaming coffee cup. "But I was on my way here when I saw this place advertising the best hot cocoa in New York, and I know how much you love cocoa, so I had to get you some... it took forever, but hopefully it was worth it." He passed her the cup. "Made just how you like it."

"With milk instead of water?" Mila tested, smiling despite herself. "And a dash of cinnamon?"

Adrian wrapped his arms around her waist and grinned wickedly. "Dunno. Guess you'll just have to try it and see."

Mila raised the cup to her lips and took a sip. The rich, perfectly made cocoa radiated warmth through her. Hot chocolate was her love language. "You're forgiven. This time." She smiled into the cup. "But next time, send me a text if you're running late, mkay?"

"Okay." He rested his chin on top of her head and kissed her hair. "So? Whaddya think? New York's best hot cocoa, or did they lie to me? Should we arrest them for fraud?"

"New York's second best," Mila nestled her face against his collarbone. "Only after my mom's."

***

IN A NEON LASER TAG ROOM, Mila cornered Adrian, kissing him. While she had him distracted, she pressed her laser tag against his chest and shot him.

"Hey!" Adrian pulled back, his vest beeping and pulsing with red lights. Beneath the blacklight, the white in his t-shirt glowed in the dark. "No fair! The rules—"

Mila laughed maniacally and dashed away from him. "You were breaking them, too!"

***

MILA AND ADRIAN STOOD in the hall outside her dorm, not looking at each other.

Mila crossed her arms over her chest. "So."

Adrian wrung his hands. "So."

"Becca's not here tonight. She's at"—she put air quotes around Becca's alleged boyfriend's name—"Chad's."

"Chad," Adrian agreed, nodding, deadly serious. "Who may or may not exist."

"Yep. So..." Mila had never felt so awkward and unsure of herself in her life.

"So..." Adrian repeated.

"So... um... do you wanna, like... stay for a little bit, or whatever?" Mila finally managed. "There's a new true crime doc that we can watch." Only way she knew to flirt.

Adrian nodded again. "Um... yeah. That sounds cool."

"Okay." Mila nodded, smiling awkwardly. "Okay, yeah. Um"—she pushed open the door—"come in. And, um, take off your shoes. Becca's weird about that."

Mila shut the door, plopped on the ground, and took off her Docs. Adrian slid his Vans off and neatly pressed them against the wall. He stood up and looked around. He'd never been in Mila's dorm before.

She and Becca had a shared futon smooshed against one wall under the window, crammed between their beds. A small TV rested on a chest of drawers across from it, next to the door. Mila gestured toward the futon. "Um, we can, like, sit right there. Best view in the house."

"Okay," Adrian agreed.

As Mila queued up Netflix on the TV, Adrian made a slow crawl along her half of the room. Mila felt self-conscious as she watched him—her half was a total mess compared to Becca's impeccable half. Dirty clothes mingled with clean on the floor and in the overflowing hamper. Her bed was unmade, her blankets bundled up in one corner. The planner open on her desk wasn't even for the right year, let alone month. Her decorations were just as sporadic—random photos of her friends and family, including a selfie of her and Adrian she'd taped to her bed's ladder. On top of her storage chest was a handful of loose rocks. Posters covered the wall, mostly of bands she liked, and hanging from the only available wall space under her loft bed was a tapestry—a deep red accented with bits of blue and orange.

Adrian turned to the futon, where Mila was already sitting. She quickly looked away, pretending to have not been watching him.

"It's avant-garde," Mila explained.

"It's nice." Adrian sat beside her, leaving space between them, more than there usually was—a good six inches. Enough room for the Holy Spirit, amen.

Mila turned to the TV and ran her hand through her hair. The true crime doc she'd wanted to watch was queued up, and the remote sat on her lap. She picked the remote up, but paused with her finger hovering over the play button. She turned the TV off and turned to face Adrian, propping her head up with the palm of her hand and tucking one leg up beneath her.

"Do you wanna make out?" Mila asked.

"Sure."

"Okay," Mila said. "I've never made out with anyone before."

Sure, they'd kissed lots of times, but it was always somewhere else, somewhere public, somewhere where anyone could see them or barge in, somewhere where they could only go so far. It was never somewhere as suggestive as Mila's own room, with her roommate gone for the night. Four walls around them and a nearly infinite amount of time.

Mila wanted to go slow. And Adrian was okay with that, going at her pace, waiting for her to make the first move, waiting for when she was ready.

"That's okay. I can show you." Adrian patted his lap. "Come here. We can't do anything if you're over there."

"I'm leaving room for Jesus," Mila sputtered in a panic.

Adrian let out a sharp, resounding laugh, tilting his head back. There was a bit of stubble on his chin. Somehow, his cystic acne made him look hotter. Mila wanted him so badly it was a tangible force inside her, but she knew she wasn't ready. She needed to take things slow, take it one step at a time. Making out with him was all she'd be able to handle, for now.

Mila scooted closer to Adrian and swung her leg over his lap. They both giggled at this, uncomfortably, blushing. She spent some time adjusting how she was sitting until she was comfortably on top of him, as if she was kneeling over him, with her knees on either side of his legs. Unsure of what to do next, she placed her hands on either side of his jaw. She could feel his pulse thrumming in his neck, feel the heat of his skin. She hoped he didn't mind how sweaty her palms were. She was more than nervous—she was scared out of her mind. But she wanted this—she wanted him. She was sure of it. His cologne washed over her, bathing her in the unmistakable scent of boy. Something inside her churned. She liked this. Especially being on top of him. Feeling like she had the power. That she was in control. Even if he was the only one who knew what he was doing.

"Have you done this a lot?" Mila asked.

Adrian trailed his thumb along her jawline. "A few times..."

Mila wasn't jealous. She'd never known, but she'd always suspected she wasn't his first anything. "Have you ever...?" she asked, because while on the topic...

Adrian nodded his head. She was still holding his jaw in her hands, and the movement drove her insane.

"Are you asking because you're ready to...?"

"Have sex?" Mila finished for him, outright. She shook her head. "No. I was just curious."

"Okay," Adrian said. "We can wait however long you need to. I don't want to do anything until you're ready. I'm not with you just because I want to have sex with you. I'm with you for you."

Mila's eyes burned. She rubbed them. "Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Want to."

"Yes. Whenever you're ready."

"Okay." Mila nodded. "Okay. But I'm not, yet. I just wanted to make sure."

"Mila, you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. Of course I want to. But more than anything, I want you to be comfortable and safe. I'd wait the rest of my life for you. But before we... before we do anything, there's something you should know."

"What?" Mila smirked. "Are you circumcised?" Not that she planned to find out today.

Adrian took a deep breath. "I'm... I'm transgender," he explained. "I haven't had... any surgery down there yet. I still have..."

Mila grabbed hold of his jaw again. She liked holding it, liked feeling the rough stubble against her skin. "I'm with you for you," she echoed back to him.

Adrian smiled softly and rested his cheek on the palm of her hand. "Mila, I love you," he whispered in French.

"Adrian, I love you, too," Mila whispered back in Spanish, because she knew that much French. But she'd had enough talking. She leaned forward and kissed him.

***

A BUBBLY CARLY RAE JEPSEN SONG cascaded into I Write Sins Not Tragedies. At the change in song, Becca—a gangly white Valley Girl with hair such a light blonde it was nearly white, skin not much darker, and a penchant for dressing like a Sharpay Evans wannabe—rolled her icy blue eyes. She leaned toward her mirror and drew on her eyebrows thick and dark to compensate for her lack of natural brows.

Mila, in the middle of penciling in her eyeliner just as thick and dark, gasped. She dropped her eyeliner, which rolled off her dresser and bounced off the carpet, breaking off the nub. She danced to Becca's half of the room, grabbed her fluffy pink hairbrush, and used it as a microphone. "Oh, well imagine / As I'm pacing the pews in a church corridor..."

Becca carefully put her eyebrow pencil in her makeup case and shook her head at Mila, grabbing for her brush. Mila danced away from her, beckoning her to join her. After sulking for a couple lines, Becca lamented. She jumped in at "I chime in / 'Haven't you people ever heard of closing the goddamn door?'"

For the rest of the song, they sang loudly and danced around each other, jumping up and down with their hands clasped around Becca's hairbrush. Their neighbors slammed on the wall to quiet them down. They didn't. Not until the song was over and the mixed station they were listening to jumped to some country song.

Grinning, Becca touched up her makeup and gave her lips one last coat of gloss. She pulled her stringy, thin hair back into a ponytail and bundled up in fuzzy pink outerwear until just her eyes were visible. She bounded toward the door.

"See you tonight," Mila called, picking up her broken eyeliner.

Becca paused in the doorframe, the door half-open. "Got big plans, huh?"

Mila shrugged and pulled on her flannel-lined leather jacket. "Malachi and I are having breakfast with my mom and Cruz. Then I'm meeting Adrian for boba. And then I'm gonna go take a walk over in West Orange. I'll be a couple hours."

Becca smiled. "Oh, okay! Have fun! See you tonight!" And she shut the door behind her.

Mila gave one last sad look at her broken eyeliner. Maybe she'd have time to stop at Ulta before breakfast...

***

"YOU'RE LATE." Auntie Isabel waved a wooden spoon clinging to shaggy clumps of dough. Flour dusted her apron and her nose. "On Breakfast Tuesday, of all days. Do you not love me anymore, children?" She pretended to whack Mila upside the head with her spoon.

"Sorry," Malachi mumbled, sliding off his outerwear—a forest green beanie and a dark blue coat, a red-and-black flannel scarf and fingerless gloves—and piling them on the coat rack.

Auntie Isabel, Mila's mom, had unofficially adopted Malachi as her own. He had a chest in the living room where he kept his belongings and had picked out the sheets for the pull-out couch himself. His mail was sent to their address instead of his own. Each year, they'd take family pictures together, which Auntie Isabel strung over the radiator. She'd even host holidays for Malachi—a Passover Seder the day after the one he was forced through with his blood family, a second nightly menorah lighting and a second nightly round of gifts. On all levels except legal, Mila and Malachi were siblings, and the Santoses were his family.

Auntie Isabel often took in kids who needed a replacement mother. Speaking of which...

"Where's Cruz?" Mila tossed her outerwear—a brown Carhartt beanie and a black leather jacket—haphazardly on the coat rack.

As if on cue, the little devil ran out of his bedroom, shrieking. His hair stuck up at angles indescribable to the human eye. Bright red sharpie streaked across his face. His shirt was inside out, and his tutu was on backward, the bow facing behind him. His eyes were wild. Malachi had never heard another human being scream that loud. He threw his hands over his ears.

Auntie Isabel rubbed her temple, shaking her head. "Lord, give me strength..."

Auntie Isabel's sister, Elvira—Mila's only aunt and Cruz's mom—had a drug problem. And his dad was an abusive piece of shit. Cruz ended up in CPS' hands. And Isabel wouldn't let the foster care system swallow him. She'd taken him in, and he'd been with her ever since.

Cruz cartwheeled through the living room and bounded toward Malachi. He hugged his legs and exclaimed, "Kai!" He couldn't pronounce Mal-uh-kai. So Kai it was. Malachi awkwardly patted him on the back. Then Cruz ran over to Mila and hugged her legs. "Meelie!" How to pronounce Meel-uh evaded him, too. The kid was problematic, nicknaming people whose names he couldn't pronounce. Get woke, stinker.

"We're not that late," Mila argued, squeezing Cruz's shoulders. "You're still making breakfast."

Auntie Isabel spun around to face the oven, a piece of the dough that had stuck to her spoon flying off and landing on the window above the sink. "These are for later. Danish rolls. Much, much later. You two should come back tonight for some. Breakfast's been ready for half-an-hour."

Auntie Isabel knew she was manipulating them through desserts. She didn't care. She always timed it so she was putting something sweet into the oven for a long, slow bake just as Mila and Malachi came around for breakfast. She wanted to tempt them to come back later for more deliciousness. Those were her babies, and she'd much prefer they were safe at home eating pastries than wandering the streets by themselves. Even if it meant she had to manipulate them. So be it!

She'd been getting stress headaches ever since they'd gone to college.

Mila and Malachi locked eyes. They conversed through eye contact, in the way only best friends could. Cruz grabbed the spoon out of Auntie Isabel's hand and licked the batter off of it. She chased him down and wrestled the spoon from him before tossing it in the sink.

MILA: It's your turn to come up with an excuse.

MALACHI: But Danish rolls, Mila! Danish rolls!

MILA: It's your turn!

Malachi heaved a Malasigh. Mila tilted her head toward her mom.

"We—hmm, we can't," Malachi mumbled. "We've got a... a thingie early tomorrow." He was not the best at thinking on his feet. "Yeah, a thingie. Gotta get to bed early."

Mila rolled her eyes and put her head in her hands. "Jesus Christ."

Auntie Isabel arched an eyebrow. "A thingie?"

Malachi nodded. He was sticking to this story; this was the hill he was going to die on. "Mhm. A thingie."

Mila's head shot up. She couldn't bear to watch another minute of this. "He's full of shit. We don't have a thingie. We... will be back for Danish rolls tonight."

Malachi flailed helplessly and made a sound like a dying whale.

"Meelie said a no-no word!" Cruz grinned and jumped up and down. "Wanna see me do a cartwheel?"

Mila, Malachi, and Auntie Isabel nodded and told him they wanted nothing more. He dashed off into the carpeted living room and did several bad cartwheels, beaming with pride, to which the three adults broke into raucous applause over. (I know, I know. He's a toddler. But I can call a cartwheel bad if it's bad, no matter the age. He ought to know better. Point your toes! It's not hard!)

"I'm so glad you're coming back," Auntie Isabel told Mila and Malachi as Cruz cartwheeled around the living room. "I have so many episodes of Hell's Kitchen we need to catch up on." Mila and Malachi didn't care for Hell's Kitchen. But Auntie Isabel did. It wasn't even Hell's Kitchen that she cared for so much as it was Gordon Ramsey. She loved the man. Worshipped. Adored. Couldn't get enough of. Did you know Gordon Ramsey is 6'2? Auntie Isabel knew. Good Lord, did Auntie Isabel know.

Mila nodded and squeezed her mom's hand. "What's for breakfast?"