“Tomatoes need a lot of water,” he says. “Especially when it’s hot like this. Do you want a drink?”

She pats the little sippy-cup hanging off the side of her overalls and shakes her head. Kellan sighs. That’s twice now. He wasn’t this little when he started gardening, but he doesn’t know how Papa dealt with it. At least she’s shorter than most of the plants, there’s some shade. Carolina had assured him she didn’t need sunglasses, but still. It’s hot out here, the air thick with the smell of green and heated earth. Bugs buzz around them and over their heads.

She stops to look at a particularly fat tomato vine, little forehead screwed up in obvious disapproval. Then, she tips the entire can upside down over it and holds it there for a few seconds before looking to him for approval.

“I wetted it!” she tells him, beaming. He grins.

“Good job!” he says. “Let’s do the next row, okay?”

She seems content listening to him, so he continues on to the next section of the garden. Tomatoes on the left, pumpkins on the right.

“Your daddy told me you look like your grandma.” He pauses, unsure how to continue. She looks up at him, blinking those big gray eyes from behind her baby-blonde hair. “I didn’t even know my grandma. And I’m don’t think it would have been a good idea. Knowing how my mom and dad were.”

There isn’t anything else to say about that. Nothing she should hear.

“See, the kind of family I’ve got is a hand-holding family,” he tells her. “We’re family ‘cause we hold on to each other. We don’t have any blood or anything, it’s just because we want to and keep holding on to each other. We got to choose.”

“So, that’s why we’re cousins,” he continues. “Because your Mommy and my Dad and Papa are hand-holding family with each other. And I’m gonna choose to be your cousin. Okay? And everyone who’s coming over today is like family to your mom and dad, so it’s like they’re yours too.”

“Hands fam’ly?” she asks, holding up her own hand.

“That’s right,” Kellan says.  “They might look kind of scary. And some of them kinda are if you don’t know them well. But they’re not. They’ll be nice, or your mom and my dad will punch them and kick them out. So you don’t have to be afraid when they all come over in a bit, okay? Even if they’re really loud.”

“Loud like bang,” she adds.

“Only if we’re unlucky,” he tells her, smile tugging at his lips.  

She picks up a cherry tomato that’s fallen off the vine, red on one side and yellow on the other. She tries to stick it back on the vine, making frustrated noises when it doesn’t work. She whines at him, pointing to the vine.

“I can’t fix it,” he says “It fell off. It can’t go back on.”

“Wet it?” she asks, holding up her watering can like it’s the answer.

“Nope,” he says. “Water’ll help it make a new tomato, but it won’t get that one back on.”

“’Tato bye-bye?” she asks, cradling the little orb of yellow and red in her palms.

“Yeah,” he says. “it’s gotta go byebye.”

She pats the plant, as if to comfort it for its loss, and then holds the tomato out to him.

“You can keep it,” he says. “You found it.”

“Kay.”

She sticks it in the front pocket of her overalls. He really hopes it doesn’t squish in there. Aunt Carolina probably doesn’t want a tomato goop-covered toddler returned to her. She beams at him, happy about her prize. He smiles back, though there’s something about it that feels almost like sadness to him.

“You’re gonna be lucky,” he tells her, bending down to look her in the eye. “’Cause you’re gonna have both. Grandma eyes and hands-families.”

She pokes his cheek, right under one eye and he winces.

“Spots,” she says.

“Freckles,” he corrects. “Like your Uncle Wash.”

She pats his cheek again, like she’s trying to be gentle.

“Kellan.”

He looks up to see his Dad watching them from the porch. There’s a faint smile in his eyes.

“Everybody arriving soon?” he asks. His dad nods. “Time to go inside,” he tells her.

He takes her hand to help her maneuver out of the garden.

“Spots, spots,” she sings. She doesn’t drop his hand once they’re clear, holds on and starts pulling him toward the house. “Spots Wash, spots. Kel spots. Spots!”

“You should show my dad your tomato,” Kellan whispers in her ear. “I bet he’ll pick you up. He likes making things easy for kids.”

She giggles and tries to pull him faster toward the house. He digs in his heels, and she laughs, pushing and pulling him until they’ve made it to the porch.

“Fun?” his dad asks.

“I think so,” Kellan replies.

“Lookit!” she yells, digging in her pocket. She gets the tomato out, only slightly squished and holds it up for him. She has to tip her head all the way back to see him. He has to bend over slightly.

“Tato,” she tells Maine. He nods solemnly, but his eyes are kind.

She takes a step forward, reaches up to shove it into his hand. She pats his knuckles, whispers “hands,” to herself and then dashes off into the house. Maine raises an eyebrow at Kellan. His smile manages to part his lips as he looks at the little girl’s gift, dwarfed by his palm.

“She could be a good gardener one day,” Kellan says. He can hear her calling for her mom and dad inside the house. A moment later he sees her and Simra run by, hand and hand, still yelling for Aunt Carolina and Uncle York. Yikes. It’s not that big of a house.

His dad stretches out an arm towards him and for a minute Kellan thinks he’s gonna offer the tomato back. He’s ready to refuse when instead, Maine’s arm wraps around his shoulders. From the house they hear the sound of the front door opening, a woman’s voice, “Anybody home?” His dad squeezes the arm wrapped around him; Kellan rolls his eyes.

The bang of the oven door alerts him that the third batch of cookies is done, the fourth sliding in after it..

“I don’t think we have any more cooling racks,” he says, glancing up at her over his homework. Nya sighs, oven mitts planted on her hips.

“They’ll be cool enough by the time the next batch comes out. Here. Have a cookie.”

A chocolate chip cookie is dropped on his math book. Kellan frowns, but only picks it up and brushes away the crumbs.

“Sorry,” Nya says, rooting around the table near what Kellan is privately thinking of as The Extracts Quadrant.

“S’okay,” Kellan says. Takes a bite of warm cookie. The chocolate melts against his tongue.

He watches her for another minute, chewing. He doesn’t say, “She’ll be okay.” He doesn’t say, “Everything will be all right.” He doesn’t say, “I understand.”

Instead, he says, “We’re out of chocolate chips.”

Nya swears.

“Don’t tell the Dads I said that,” she says. “You never heard that.”

“I go to middle school,” Kellan retorts.

“Well, you never heard it from me.”

“You could make banana bread,” Kellan says. “The kind with the peanut putter and nutella swirls in it?”

“I could,” Nya muses, counting eggs. “Hmm.”

By the time she’s begun beating the bananas into submission, forehead knotted in frustration (and worry), Kellan’s gone back to his homework.

Honestly, it’d be easier for him to focus in his room. But his sister needs to see him now. She needs to hear him chewing on a cooking and the scratch of his pencil while he does his homework. At least until Dad and Papa and Simra get back from the hospital. 

When she takes the last batch of cookies out, he asks for another.

The front door opens and Nya freezes, hands stilling in the act of placing the banana bread in the oven. Kellan looks up, too.

“Nya?” Papa calls, “Kellan?”

“In the kitchen, Papa!” Kellan calls. Nya let’s out a shaky breath, but follows him to the hallway.

They’ve only finished taking off their shoes by the time they get there. Wash looks at them and smiles, a couple of pizza boxes under his arm. Simra waves from Maine’s arms. There’s an over-large ice bag taped to her foot.

“Just sprained,” Wash says. “Badly, sprained, but just a sprain.”

“I got us pizza,” Simra says, her smile wobbly. 

Kellan smiles back. He leans against Nya’s side, so he feels when she sighs, the shuddering tension trying to leave her. He wasn’t in the room when Simra tripped trying to show Dad a dance for her recital but he heard her scream. Nya hadn’t been in the room either, but he’d seen her dash from upstairs.

“Nya made cookies,” Kellan says. “And banana bread.”

Maine nods, moves to set Simra down gently on the couch, propping her foot up on a pillow.

“Peanut butter?” Simra asks, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Yeah,” Nya croaks. “Yeah, it’ll be ready soon.”

“Good,” Wash says, setting the boxes down on the coffee table. “Kellan, help me get some plates?”

Nya sits down on the couch opposite Simra, and Simra promptly begins regaling her with her story about the ER, her voice gaining strength as she goes. 

In the kitchen, Papa eyes the pile of dirty baking dishes, Kellan’s mostly-finished homework on the table.

“Are you okay?” he asks in undertone.

“Yeah,” Kellan says. taking the plates as he’s handed them. “I’m okay. Nya made four batches of cookies and banana bread, though.”

Papa winces. Simra’s voice floats in from the other room, Dad’s rumbling chuckle the bass to her flute-ish voice. Nya’s voice is absent.

“This kind of stuff is hard on her,” Papa says. 

Kellan nods. He knows. He knows he wasn’t Nya’s first brother. Just like Nya knows when to come find him, and when to let him hide. Nya knows how to remind him he’s safe.

Dad squeezes his shoulder.

“Let’s go eat,” he says. “Thanks for looking out for her, buddy.”

Kellan shrugs.

North sends him a disapproving look, closes the door behind them.

"What do you mean they don’t really know?" he asks.

"Okay," Kellan says. "They don’t know."

North frowns, points a stern finger towards the kitchen.

"Go sit," he says.

Kellan troops obligingly into the kitchen. He knows the way. He’s been to North’s house before, just not in a few years.

North sighs a little, scrubbing a hand against his temples before following. He just knows this is going to be a bigger deal than a surprise visit. You gain a sixth sense for these kind of things when you have a sister like South, and the friends North has.

When he gets to the kitchen, Kellan’s taken off his backpack, shoved it under the table. He turns when he hears North approaching, and damn, North can remember when the kid had trouble reaching the freezer. No such trouble now, the kid’s grown like a weed, like some plant in his care.

"Coffee?" North asks.

"Yeah, thanks," Kellan says.

"Jesus, you’re tall," North says. "You taller than your Papa yet?"

"By a half inch," Kellan grins. "Pisses him off. Dad thinks it’s hilarious."

"Sit already," North insists, waving a hand.

Kellan rolls his eyes but sits down at the kitchen table.

"Okay," North says, busying himself with coffee preparations. "Now, what’s going on?"

"Nothing," Kellan says. "Okay, fine, stop looking at me like that."

"I’m not looking at you like anything,"

"Seriously, cut it out. I’m getting to it."

Kellan sighs, a quiet sound, a pause to gather his words. North waits.

"I’m going on a trip," Kdellan says. "You know how they used to do cross-country roadtrips in old North America? Or backpacking through Europe? Kinda like that. Just…Multi-planet."

"Got a bit of wanderlust?" North asks.

Kellan shrugs.

"You could put it that way."

"How would you put it?" North asks.

Kellan scrunches up his face, avoids North’s eyes.

"I just need to get away," he says. "For a bit. By myself."

"Being alone’s not all it’s cracked up to be," North says, studying him carefully.

"I know," Kellan says. "I just. I want to find that out for myself. Anyway, yeah, they don’t know. Not yet. I figured I’d call them once I’m far enough away that Papa can’t come drag me home."

"I won’t lie to them if they ask," North says.

"Wouldn’t ask you to," Kellan says, making to get to his feet. North puts a hand on his shoulder, forces him back down. Puts a cup of coffee in front of him. Kellan smiles gratefully, curves his palms around the warm ceramic.

"They won’t like it."

"I’ve already had this argument with them," Kellan says. "This isn’t some spur-of-the-moment thing, North. I’ve been thinking about this, talking about it for…well, for a while now."

"It’s not their decision," Kellan continues. "I’ve got the money. I just want to…I just want to get lost. You know?"

North doesn’t know. At least not now. But he thinks maybe he remembers, remembers what it’s like to be young and rootless, to want to run, or chase something. To want to drift.

He’d gone and joined the military. He’s kind of glad Kellan isn’t.

"Alright, alright, kid," North says. "You have to do what you have to do. But you should know they’ll worry."

Kellan shrugs, but guilt bends his spine.

"I’ll call, and write," he says. "They’ll know where I am. Most of the time. I just….need to do this. For me."

North nods, finishes his coffee.

"My flight leaves in two days," Kellan says. "Would it be okay if I crashed here until then?"

North snorts.

"You know you’re always welcome here, kiddo," he says. "Guest room’s set up. Just let me get rid of all the rude post-it notes I left for South."

"Nah," Kellan says. "Leave ‘em. They’re funny."

"Suit yourself," North says. "Where are you going?"

"I got a ticket on a ship out to a forest-world," Kellan says. "I think…I think I want to see some trees. I don’t really have much of a plan, other than that."

Kellan puts his mug in the sink, and digs his backpack out from under the table, heads for the guest room.

"One more thing," North says. Kellan pauses in the doorway. "When you do call them, and you should call them soon, make sure you tell them it isn’t about them."

Kellan looks back at him, expression knowing and thoughtful. The kid was always too good at reading between the lines. North forces himself to meet his eyes

"You don’t want that kind of thing to fester," North says. "Make sure they know it isn’t about them."

"…I will," Kellan says, voice quiet. "I’ll call them as soon as we touch ground."

 He retreats to the guest room to put his stuff down. North sighs, runs a hand through his hair. He has a feeling about the amount of yelling about to come into his life.

But Kellan’s twenty-four. Well old enough to make his own decisions. And mistakes. And choices.

North knows a little something about decisions, and mistakes and choices. For one, he’s learned that it rarely ends well when you try to make them for other people. And it probably took him longer than most to learn that sometimes, you just have to do what makes you happy.