The screen door creaked as Dean stepped out onto the porch, wiping his hands on a towel that didn’t match his comically ugly apron — a faded thing with “Grill Sergeant” printed across the front and a few mystery stains that had survived countless washes. Behind him, the sound of two kids arguing over who got the bigger juice box echoed from the kitchen. Dean gave a long-suffering sigh, but the smile on his face said he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“Hope you like burgers,” he said, nodding toward the backyard where a grill sizzled and smoke curled upward into the early evening air. “Eli wanted cheese on everything and Max burned the first batch of buns, but hey — we got juice boxes and good company. You in?”