"It's healthy and nutritious," I continued. "Lots of fiber." Liam pretended to vomit, and Nate stifled a laugh.
"Jack and I brought something better, curtesy of his girlfriend's bakery," Liam said, shoving me aside. Jack pulled a box out of his bag and opened it to display perfectly decorated cookies. All the kids cheered.
"They shouldn't have that much sugar," I complained to Hunter as Jack and Liam handed out cookies. He looked at me critically.
"You're one to talk. You have chocolate sauce all over your suit."
3
Josie
When I was a young and impressionable college student, back when I thought there was a glamorous job waiting for me on the other side of the university rainbow, I dreamed of a cool townhouse—one of those big ones in New York City. It would be my sanctuary. There would be a kitchen three times as big as the one in Anke's old apartment. I would have a six—noeight—burner range and three ovens. The kitchen would have an island to seat the humongous family I totally would have. I would make awesome, tasty meals and wear a cute apron and kiss my attractive husband when he came home from work. I would have a craft room, with pretty bits of ribbons, paper, and shiny markers. Best of all, I would have a candy wall displaying glass jars of all different kinds of colorful, sweet treats. When I wasn't crafting or cooking, I would take inspirational photos of my house and curate them on Instagram.
The tiny house that was waiting for me the next morning in the parking lot behind Ida's General Store never featured in my dreams. It never even featured in my nightmares. In its heyday, the tiny house might have been described as modern rustic. Now it was just dilapidated. It was also, well, it wastiny. I could stretch my arms out and touch both walls. The linoleum countertop was peeling. The walls were cracking. The cabinetry looked askew, probably from all the bouncing around on the road. There was a sink the size of a soup bowl, a cruddy toaster oven, and on a shelf above the sink was a display of mason jars holding a dusty array of various pastas.
I made a mental note to put candy into them. If this was as close as I would ever get to my own home, I was making the most of it.
"You're just giving this to her?" Willow asked the hipster. His name was Homer, and he wasn't wearing any shoes. His feet were black.
Homer shrugged. "The lady who had it got married and moved into her new husband's tiny house." He shook his head. "It isn't even that tiny. It's a luxury trailer. This"—he slapped the side of the little cabin on wheels, and the house shook ominously—"this is what tiny-house living is supposed to be—small and low impact."
"Does it have a bathroom?" Willow asked.
Homer picked a piece of gravel out of his foot. I was going to have to scrub the house at some point if he had been walking all over it. "It has a composting toilet and a wet room," he replied, pointing to a tiny door that looked like it was made for elves. I peeked inside and tried not to barf.
"This is a well-traveled tiny house," Homer said, banging on the wall again. The house shook, and a piece of the wood veneer on the ceiling fell down, exposing the insulation.
"It's fine," I assured him, needing him to stop destroying my new home.
"The truck comes with it," Homer added, gesturing us out of the house.
Hitched to the trailer bed was an old Ford pickup. If it had been lovingly maintained, I might have called it a classic pickup. In its current condition, there were brown rust patches, and the door handle was missing.
"I hope you can drive a stick shift," Homer said.
I nodded.
"It guzzles gas but pulls like a champ," Homer said, slapping the truck. One of the chrome pieces fell off, swinging by the remaining screw. The screeching of metal on metal made me wince.
"Enjoy your new home!" Homer said. "Go tiny!" He pumped his fist in the air. I raised my fist halfheartedly and looked up at the sky. It looked like it was going to rain. Maybe it would clean Homer off. Willow and I watched him lope down the road.
"Where is he going?" I mused.
My friend shrugged. "I have to go. My team is meeting at a coffee shop on Main Street before we head over to PharmaTech." Willow hugged me. "Enjoy! We'll catch up later."
I walked back inside the tiny house, sagging. I was still hungover from last night. I remembered falling asleep in the Uber then throwing up outside Willow's hotel.
My head pounded. I needed to go to work soon. I checked the time on my phone. I didn't have to be there until nine a.m. I had plenty of time. I lay down on the scratchy mattress.
4
Mace
As always, I woke up the next morning at five thirty. Routine was important. I led my younger brothers on a run around the large estate. They trailed behind me in two lines of twelve. My eldest brother Remington, Remy for short, ran with us, wearing a big weight vest.
"Top of the morning!" he said through his huge bushy beard. The big ex-marine had let his hair grow out after he left the service. He looked wild, but the kids loved him. I loved him, too, though he was more like a kid himself than any real help with our younger siblings. Still, he was probably one of my favorite brothers.
Jack Frost was in the dining room when we returned from the run. On the table was another box of baked goods
