The room is a riot of color and chaos, like a child’s imagination exploded and decided to take up permanent residence. The walls are painted in swirling pastels, and the ceiling is strung with fairy lights that flicker like fireflies. The table in the center of the room is small and round, covered in a lace tablecloth that’s seen better days, and it’s piled high with mismatched teacups, saucers, and plates of cookies that look like they’ve been decorated by someone with more enthusiasm than skill. The air smells like sugar and lavender, and the faint sound of a music box tinkles in the background, adding to the surreal, dreamlike quality of the scene.

You’re sitting in a chair that’s far too small for you, knees almost bumping against the underside of the table, but you don’t dare complain. Across from you, Molly is holding court, her hair covered with bandana that bounce with every movement, smile wide and infectious.

“Okay, okay,” she says, clapping her hands together. “Rule number one: no boring grown-up talk. Rule number two: you have to try the cookies. I made them myself. And rule number three…” She pauses, tapping her chin thoughtfully, then grins. “No rules! Except for the first two. And maybe one more. No being a buzzkill.”