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Grandpa squinted at his book. “I’m not complaining, I’m educating. And close that book at the table. Reading while waiting for meat is a tragedy.”

Grandpa Alfonse was the ripe old age of a hundred but didn’t act a day over eighty—unless you took his strong aversion to technology into consideration. Before Mom, he had been the alpha of the Blackwell Pack.

Grandma looked around the kitchen and spotted the bandage on my arm. “What happened to you?”

“Tree.”

She waited.

“Levi got stuck and I had to retrieve him.”

“Did he fall?”

“No.”

“Then why are you bleeding?”

“I met a branch.”

She made to take my arm.

I moved it out of range before she could peel off Caldwell’s bandage for inspection. “It’s handled.”

“You always say that,” Grandma said, narrowing her eyes.

I smiled. “Because it always is.”

“You’re too much like your mother.”

Mom pointed the knife toward her. “I’m standing right here, Mom.”

“I know where you are, Hilary.”

The kitchen filled even more over the next few minutes. Patty arrived first, then Trevor, carrying a small storage container filled with what looked like glittering plastic pieces. Mason appeared behind him to return Mom’s portable tire pump. A Carpenter aunt stepped in to ask whether anyone had spare thyme, then stayed because Julie handed her a glass of wine.

Nobody formally invited anyone to sit. Chairs appeared. Plates were passed. Jason abandoned his wraps after Mom threatened to confiscate them, and Caldwell moved close enough that his knee rested against mine beneath the table.

Aunt Karen walked in, dropping a covered dish onto the table with unnecessary force. She immediately zeroed in on Patty, who was leaning against the counter and sketching a stylized skull on a napkin.

“Must you draw at the table, Patricia?” Karen snapped, pulling out a chair. “It’s bad enough you spend your days daubing paint on old thrift-store denim instead of getting a proper job with benefits. You’re twenty-four. What kind of future are you planning to build on doodle jackets?”

Patty didn’t even look up, just capped her pen. “It’s a wearable art business, Aunt Karen. And it pays my rent.”

Karen scoffed as she passed a bowl of salad to her left. “It’s a hobby. If you had an active wolf, you’d have the drive to achieve something real. But latent shifters always drift into these nonsensical creative outlets because they lack discipline. You’re settling for less because you think that’s all you deserve.”

My jaw tightened. “Patty’s art is successful, Aunt Karen, and it has nothing to do with her lacking a wolf. Leave it alone.”

Julie brought the chicken out last, then stood at the head of the table to inspect everything. “We’re missing something.”

“Peace?” Mom suggested.

Julie clapped once. “We need one more serving spoon.”

Before she could walk to the drawer, Grandma pulled one out of her handbag, which had all of us staring at her.

“What?” she asked. “You know I always come prepared.”

I filled Caldwell’s plate while conversation moved across the table in overlapping currents. Trevor explained online payment holds to Grandpa, who responded with a thumbs-up and no indication of whether he understood. Mason was describing his road trip route in great detail to anyone who would listen, while Jason was loudly correcting three inaccurate statements about martial arts made by nobody in particular. Byron asked Julie whether the concept of factory-made rolls being homemade could be defended philosophically.