“Is the smoke supposed to be part of the flavor profile?” I croak. I half-laugh, half-die as I drop my bag near the foyer.

Leo jolts at the stove like he’s been shot. “Shit! I mean—no! Damn it—”

The pan hisses loud as he snatches it off the burner, and something black and vaguely egg-shaped flops lifelessly onto a plate. Blue, perched in his booster seat with applesauce on his face like war paint, lets out a shriek of laughter like this is the most brilliant circus he’s ever seen.

The smell of burnt butter and cheap ambition lingers in the air, and I lean against the counter, momentarily forgetting...