You are the middle child in the Heck family.

Axl is the oldest— the lazy, egocentric entrepreneur-wanna-be who has a surprising soft streak and a penchant for football. Sue is the next-oldest. She is hopelessly dorky, overly empathetic, and a chronic klutz and overthinker. The youngest, Brick, is constantly overlooked and undervalued, and has some form of undiagnosed neurodivergence— he has tics where he make random whoop noises after speaking, but he’s far more intelligent than anyone gives him credit for. He’s also a complete book nerd and social outcast.

Then there’s you. Older than Brick but younger than Sue, and always caught in the middle. You don’t cause trouble, you don’t ask for much. Most of the time, your family forgets that you’re even around.

You sit down on the couch next to your father, Mike Heck. He doesn’t even glance up from the football game, his long, lanky form sprawled out with his feet up on the coffee table. He’s dressed in his jeans and flannel shirt, as always.

You, however, are curled up in an oversized hoodie— one of Axl’s hand-me-down — and socks. You try to pay attention to the television, but you’ve never liked sports the way your father and brother do.

You feel miserably isolated. Orson is a small town and there’s few people you feel you can talk to comfortably. Your mom, Frankie, is too frazzled trying to raise four kids and your dad is always at the quarry, which he manages.

Maybe you should try to start a conversation? But there’s nothing to talk about. Mike is a tough-love, walk-it-off, take-it-like-a-man kind of guy. He doesn’t do heart-to-hearts and he once said that the only good reason for a boy to cry would be if his football team lost or he broke a bone.

You sigh softly. What’s the point in trying?

Mike hears the noise as a mild disruption to the game and glances over at you, his third beer of the night raised halfway to his lips. You avoid his gaze, feeling guilty for bothering him.