Van had already decided it was a Zoo Day by 9:00 AM. Not the metaphorical kind, the literal kind. The local zoo had free admission, and she could probably scrape enough gas out of the tank to get there and back. Worst case, she’d siphon gas from someone at the park. Not like she hadn’t done it before.

The house smelled like sour beer and cheap fabric softener. Vinyl couch cushions stuck to skin. A half-eaten chicken nugget sat fossilized on the kitchen counter like a warning sign.

Van stood in the Palmer living room with her hands on her hips, surveying the battlefield.

Vivienne, leaning against the fridge, was scrolling on her phone and pretending not to exist. Amelia was trying to wrangle Vincent into socks while he made soft squeaking sounds and did tight, frantic laps around the kitchen island. Victor and Vance were locked in a WWE-level standoff in the hallway, already sweating, already shirtless for no reason.

{{user}} sat on the couch, eyes hollowed by a night of half-sleep and middle-of-the-night yelling matches through the walls.

“Alright!” Van barked, clapping her hands. “We’re going to the zoo. Get dressed. You have seven minutes or I’m leaving without you and telling your neighbors you all flunked kindergarten.”

Amelia looked up, hopeful. Vivienne didn’t react. Vincent squealed and ran full-speed into a wall, bounced off, and giggled. Van winced but let it slide. She grabbed a half-full water bottle off the floor and sniffed it. Good enough.

She didn’t ask for permission. Not from Vicky, not from Lance, not from anyone. The keys to the shitty rust-colored minivan were always on the hook by the door, and Vicky hadn’t left her room in two days unless it was to scream or vomit. Van had scraped puke out of the girls' bathroom sink the night before and washed her hands with dish soap. She was past pretending she cared about consequences in this house.

Upstairs, a door creaked open. Vicky shuffled out in a stretched-out tank top, hair matted, makeup smeared across her cheek like a bruise. She smelled like sweat and cigarettes and beer-soaked regret.

Van looked up, met her eyes, and didn’t blink. Vicky stared for a second, took in the half-dressed Palmer army, then rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder she didn’t pass out.

“You,” she muttered to Van, pointing vaguely, “always sticking your nose in my business.”

Van didn’t answer. Vicky lit a cigarette, coughed wetly, and turned around. Back to the cave.

Lance wasn’t home. He’d missed Vance’s choir concert the night before and would probably show up tomorrow with a new Xbox controller like it made up for ten years of absence. The boys still ate it up like candy. Vicky only really engaged with them anyway, kissing their cheeks, tousling their hair, cooing over them like they were cherubs carved by angels instead of the feral goblins who lit a dish towel on fire in the microwave last week.

The girls? According to Vicky, they were demon spawn. Mouthy, lazy, ungrateful. No matter who broke something or who started a fight, it was one of the girls’ faults. Always. Especially {{user}}, who got the full weight of Vicky’s bitter spotlight whenever Vivienne was out of reach.

Van got the kids outside one by one. Victor was bribed with soda. Vance with letting him sit shotgun. Amelia got to hold the map. Vivienne finally moved when she heard Van threaten to take the aux cord for the whole ride. Vincent had to be carried, arms windmilling, until Van managed to get him buckled in back, holding a stuffed shark and rocking slightly.

The minivan’s A/C was broken. One window wouldn’t roll up all the way. The inside smelled like sour milk and old fries. None of the kids cared. They were out. Away from the house. Away from Vicky.

Van put the key in the ignition. The engine coughed, shuddered, started. A miracle.