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"Three, two, one," Dad counts us in.

"Thank you." We all say solemnly and in unison.

When we were kids, my parents used to insist on each of us recounting what we're thankful for. After Hudson turned eighteen, he gathered us right before dinner to divulge a plan.

That year, all of us had a lot to be thankful for. Each of us spent at least five minutes going over every single thing. Our parents. Our siblings. The man at the supermarket who gave me a penny so I could buy a popsicle in the summer. The random woman who handed me my earring when it slipped out of my ear.

By the time we were done, everything aside from the turkey was cold.

So, Mom gave in and decided from that year on, we could all just think about what we're thankful for. And the only part we'd say out loud is the "thank you."

It's one of the few times we kids got one over on them. Though I suspect they were waiting for an opportunity to shorten this part of Thanksgiving anyway.

"I swear, the food is getting better each year," I declare and pick up some pasta with my fork.

"You outdid yourself on the beans, Mom," Jamie says with a full mouth that earns him a piece of bacon flicked his way.

Right as it hits his shirt, my phone blares.

And so does Evan's.

"Huh?" We shoot each other a confused glimpse. It’s Thanksgiving. Who would want something from Evan and me? Everyone who fits that MO is sitting at this table.

"Seriously? It's the middle of dinner," Mom complains when Evan pulls his phone out and answers the call.

"What is it?" Mine is still buzzing in my pocket with an incoming call or a ton of notifications; neither are good signs.

Evan freezes. Then he turns whiter than Mom's tablecloth.

"Brooke, we have to go. Now." He jumps up so abruptly that his chair falls over. "The main square is on fire."

"What?" My blood runs cold. Before I even realize I got up, I'm already on my feet and storm after him.

"You keep eating," he shouts over his shoulder. As if any of my brothers would have stopped their Thanksgiving feast.

Meanwhile, I finally take the call. "This is Brooke."

"Hi, it's Rebecca here. Brooke, you've got to come in. The Main Square is on fire, and there's so much smoke and—"

"I'm on my way."

We’re already in the hallway and I try to slip on my shoes. My heel isn't even getting into them, but I don't give a fuck. Because the Main Square is on fire and my animals are in a building right next to it.

Evan brushes past me by the time I pull on my jacket and holds out his hand impatiently. "Give me your car keys. I'll drive."

Chapter 7

Kieran

Lauren sets a huge bowl of potatoes and a peeler down in front of me. "You are so good at peeling potatoes, Kieran. So that will be your contribution today."

I glare at her. She only gives me the sweetest smile, then turns to Nic, who is currently stirring the sauce for our one of our sides.

"Now, I’m no cooking expert, but I have a feeling you're lying to me," I accuse Lauren, pointing the peeler at her.

"I would never," she answers over her shoulder with wide, puppy-like wide eyes. "You are the most talented potato peeler out of the three of us."

I keep glaring at her. Then I shrug. She might be lying, but I thrive on praise, so who am I to say no? It’s not as if I’d be much help anywhere else in the kitchen.