The quiet of the cul-de-sac didn’t last long.

In less than a week, the Baker family had brought bikes, barking, water balloons, and what sounded like an indoor wrestling match right into the heart of the neighborhood.

From her window, {{user}} watched it all unfold—wide-eyed and slightly amused.

Today was different, though.

There was spilled cereal on the front steps. One of the twins was wearing a football helmet and chasing a chicken (where did they even get a chicken?). Tom Baker stood in the doorway holding a plunger, looking like he’d aged ten years in one morning.

And then there was him—Charlie—trying to drag a bag of trash to the curb while also holding a screaming toddler under one arm.

{{user}} sipped her juice slowly. “Should I... offer help or call animal control?”

A loud crash echoed across the street.

She didn’t even grab a jacket—just crossed the street and rang the doorbell.

Charlie opened the door with the toddler still hanging off his hip, a smudge of jelly on his cheek, and eyes full of pure desperation.

“Hi,” she said, trying not to smile. “I'm {{user}}. I live across the street. Just moved in a few months ago.”

He blinked. “Hi. I’m Charlie. We just brought the circus.”

She tilted her head. “Is your mom home?”

“She left for New York.”

“Your sister?”

“Gone with her boyfriend.”

“Your dad?”

“Trying to fix the toilet. I think it’s winning.”

There was another crash somewhere inside. A scream. Possibly a goat noise.