“He can sleep it off,” Layla said. “He’ll come find us when he’s up.”

I followed her as she walked toward the shed they’d rehearsed in earlier, clearing some papers and a pair of drumsticks off a rumpled sofa there. Irv deposited Eric onto it, and she covered him with a sleeping bag. As she tucked it around him, he mumbled something in his sleep. The others were already heading to the house, so I was the only one who saw her smooth his forehead with her hand, lingering there as she shushed him.

The house wasn’t just crowded: it was packed. We had to squeeze in, then apologize and avoid feet and elbows all the way to the kitchen, where there was more breathing room. Once there, I looked back to see Mrs. Chatham in her recliner, her husband on the couch, head ducked down, a banjo in his lap. He was flanked by two other men, also playing, and a redheaded woman sat in a nearby chair, a violin on her shoulder. But it was Rosie everyone was watching.

She was standing at the edge of the couch, wearing jeans and a tank top, sporting her trademark ponytail. Her eyes were closed. I didn’t know the song she was singing, as I knew none of the ones I’d heard on the Seaside jukebox. But it was haunting, about a girl and a mountain and a memory, and it wasn’t until it was over that I realized I’d been holding my breath.

“Wow,” I said to Layla as everyone applauded. Rosie, her cheeks pink, gave a rare smile, then leaned against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest. “You weren’t kidding. She’s amazing.”

“I know,” she said. “She doesn’t agree to sing much. But when she does, she blows me away.”

Behind us, the guys were more focused on food, busy rifling through the cabinets. “I need something good,” Irv said. “And a lot of it.”

“Carrot sticks?” Mac said. “Vegetarian jerky?”

Irv, staring into a collection of spice jars, turned his head slowly, looking at him. “Are you serious right now? Do I look like a vegetarian to you?”

“How do vegetarians look?”

“Not like me.” He shut the cabinet, then opened another one, revealing a box of Pop-Tarts. “Okay. Now we’re talking.”

“I want one!” Layla called out. “Let me see if we have any frosting to put on them.”

Irv snapped his fingers, pointing at her. “I like the way you think.”

Mac, over at the sink, sighed. I watched him open a smaller cabinet, up high. Taped inside was a handwritten sign: MAC’S FOOD. DO NOT EAT!

“As if anyone would want to,” Layla, now eating strawberry frosting from a container with a spoon, said as she came over to stand beside me. Irv was at the toaster oven, laying out rows of Pop-Tarts on the rack inside. “We have mice, and they don’t even touch what’s up there.”

Mac, ignoring this, pulled out a box of crackers, then walked to the fridge, where he dug around for a minute before producing some kind of spread. He got a knife and took a seat at the kitchen table just as the music began again. When Layla went over to consult with Irv about toaster settings, I slid into a seat opposite him. He angled the now-open box in my direction.

“You don’t want that,” Layla called out. “Trust me. Hold out for the tarts with frosting.”

It seemed rude, however, to say no, so I reached in, pulling a cracker out. It was octagonal-shaped and dotted with seeds and grains. Mac watched me as I took a bite. It was so thick, my teeth barely cut through it. And dry. Very, very dry.

“Thanks,” I said, managing to get half the word out before being overcome by a coughing fit. In response, Layla plunked a glass of water by my elbow. The girl thought of everything.

“They’re better with hummus,” Mac told me as I tried to catch my breath. It was like that one piece of cracker was clinging to my esophagus with a death grip. He pushed the spread toward me, the knife balanced on top. “Here.”

I smiled, sucking down a sip of the water. Across the room, the toaster pinged. “Saved!” Irv said, opening the door. He reached in, immediately burning his fingers. “Shit, that’s hot.”

“You never learn, do you?” Layla grabbed a wooden spoon, then used it to pull the tarts out, piling them on a plate. “Grab the frosting. It’s go time.”

They settled at the table on either side of me. Layla tore off two paper towels, giving one to Irv, and then distributed a Pop-Tart to each of them, along with a healthy dollop of frosting. They each dipped, then toasted each other. I looked down at the remains of my cracker. Then, purely out of loyalty, I plunged it into the hummus.

It was better. Not good, mind you. But better. I only coughed a little. “What are these, again?” I asked Mac.

“Kwackers,” he told me, turning the box so I could read the label. “They’re sugar-free, low-carb, and fortified by additional Kwist Seeds, which are like soy, but healthier.”

“Yum.” Layla fixed me a paper towel plate and a tart, then pushed it toward me. “Don’t be a martyr, Sydney. Even for Mac.”

“Are those my Pop-Tarts?”

I looked up to see Rosie squeezing her way into the kitchen, two girls of her same build and size—one dark-haired, one white-blonde—following. The brunette had on leggings and a Mariposa sweatshirt, featuring the trademark pink butterfly character I remembered from the Saturday morning cartoons of my childhood. The blonde was in shorts and a crop top, displaying one of the most perfect sets of abs I’d ever seen.