Page 33 of The Dysasters

“Hey, take it easy. You’re going to give yourself a stroke.” Tate stepped between them, mouthingunclenchas he signaled for a time-out. “How about this, Finn, you hungry?”

Finn’s softly angled eyebrows shot up at the mention of food. “I can always eat.”

Foster blew out a short puff of air as Tate and Finn once again did that slapping, gripping, shaking hands hug thing.

“Foster and I were just about to make breakfast. Come have some food. Then at least you’ll get something out of being interrogated.”

“I never turn down a free meal.”

Foster readied herself to ground out a witty insult when Tate caught her eye. He had that little-kid “please, please, please will you let Finn come over and play” look in his big blue, puppy dog–sweet eyes. Foster sighed. She might not need friends, actually, the thought of having to go make any made her skin feel all hivey, but Tate wasn’t cut from the same icy blue loner cloth she was. If anything, he was from the pastel-colored, squishy baby elephant print variety.

Foster made sure to lock the deadbolt before following the boys into the kitchen. “Did you get eggs when you went to the store?” she asked, surprising herself by how semi-happy and normal she sounded—like this was a regular day in her regular life and not the first day of the horrible, shit-show, freakazoid nightmare that would be her new norm.

“If you didn’t, we can go out back and grab some. They’re better straight from the coop anyway. No pesticides, GMO corn, none of that crap. Just simple, speckled eggs as nature intended.”

“There are chickens here? We have chickens?” Tate fluttered around the kitchen with so much excitement, Foster thought he might take flight.For a big, jocky guy he can sure act like a little kid.

“And a pig, two cats, one burro, three goats, one cow, a sheep, and two horses.”

“It’s a zoo,” Foster grunted, hunting through each of the yellow cabinets for pots and pans.

“Oh, and a duck and a goose. Did I mention them? I lose track sometimes when I’m not calling them each by name.”

“Because it’s a zoo,” she reiterated, pulling out a skillet and setting it on the stovetop.

“Horses?” Wistfully, Tate set down a carton of orange juice and a few glasses in front of Finn. “Oh, man, I love horses.”

“If you’re ever out in the pasture,” Finn motioned to the window above the kitchen sink. “Just bring them some carrots and they’ll love you right back.”

“My grandpa raised running quarter horses. What kind are they?”

“They’re not horses,” Foster remarked, staring out at the pasture at the two almost identical, dapple-gray Hulk-sized creatures. “They’re dinosaurs. Big, hairy dinosaurs.”

“Close. They’re Percherons.”

Foster shivered. Horses were pretty much gigantic cars with minds of their own, and Percherons looked like the monster truck version. Why would anyone drive a car that had its own brain?

“No way,” Tate breathed as he stared through the window at the beasts. “I can’t wait to get out there with them. I’ve never been up close and personal with a draft horse that size. Are they broke?” he asked, absentmindedly pressing the carton of eggs against Foster’s stomach as he slid into the breakfast nook.

“Oh, yeah. And sweet as can be,” Finn said.

“Umm, excuse me. What exactly am I supposed to do with these?”

Tate shrugged. “We’ll eat ’em any way you make ’em.”

Foster didn’t conceal her scoff. “I’m sorry. I must have heard you incorrectly.”

“Uh-oh,” Finn said, resting his scruffy chin on his knuckles. “You’re in trouble now.”

“Yeah, so, I’m just going to set these right here. You want eggs, you make them yourself.”

“No, wait. I didn’t mean that since you’re a woman that—”

Foster shoved her hands on her hips, waiting for him to finish.

“I—I mean,” Tate stammered, “that you should cook because—”

Foster clenched her jaw so tight her teeth might shatter.