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himself. The woman noticed him looking. She lifted a gloved hand in silent greeting, a wide smile pulled across her lacquered lips. Drew looked down to his feet, struck by a familiar sense of awkwardness; it was the same unease he’d felt when he realized his truck didn’t belong on Magnolia Lane, that
he
didn’t belong in Oz.
    “Those are the Wards,” Mickey told him, hesitated, then continued. “They’re all right.”
    They were more than all right. Because what kind of people gardened in business casual?
Perfect people
, he thought; people who wouldn’t be caught dead on Cedar Street.

    He and Mick just about killed themselves dragging that mattress down the hallway. Mickey went backward, slowing down when Drew yelped that he was about to trip over his own feet. He hovered while Drew organized his things, as if waiting to be told what to do. Finally unnerved by his roommate’s sudden bout of assistance, Drew shook his head at him and shot Mick a look.
    “I’ll be all right,” he assured him. “Really.”
    “You sure?” Mick asked, but relented when Andrew’s eyebrow arched dubiously over one eye.
    By the time Drew stepped out of his room, Mick was back on the couch, mashing buttons. Drew scratched the back of his neck, watching the game for half a minute before speaking up.
    “Hey, do you have a screwdriver anywhere? I need to put the bed frame together.”
    Mickey paused his game, eyed his new roommate for a second, and tossed his game controller onto the couch cushion.
    “Yeah, sure,” he said. “Wait here.”
    Drew furrowed his eyebrows as Mickey wandered into the kitchen, disappearing through a door that led into a garage. Hewaited for a minute, rolled his eyes at how long it was taking, and sank onto the couch. Grabbing the controller, he was about to unpause Mick’s game when the plate of cookies caught his attention. He leaned forward, plucked the little card from atop the cellophane. The flowing script declared the treat was from the Wards—those perfect next-door neighbors. It was flawless, the prettiest handwriting he’d ever seen, matching the woman who had written it to a T. His heart flipped when he put it together: she had been the shadow in the window the evening he pulled up, the night he thought their house was Mick’s. She had seen him fiddle with their gate latch, had watched him realize his mistake and wander next door to the house that, no doubt, she hated. And instead of turning her nose up at the new neighbor who’d just moved into the crappiest house on the block, she stepped into her gleaming kitchen, grabbed a mixing bowl and a wooden spoon, and made cookies. For
him
.
    Carefully pulling the cellophane away from the edge of the plate—a real plate, not a disposable one—Drew lifted a cookie to his nose, inhaling its sweetness before taking a bite. He fell back against the couch, his eyes shut, a chunk of chocolate melting on his tongue. They were amazing, as though she’d sprinkled magic into the mix.
    He sat up when the kitchen door to the garage slammed shut. Mickey trudged into the living room, holding a Phillips-head screwdriver out for Andrew’s approval.
    “Have you tasted these?” Drew asked, getting to his feet. He took the screwdriver, Mrs. Ward’s little card tucked into the palm of his hand.
    “They’re for you,” Mickey said. “Forgot to tell you.”
    “They’re incredible.”
    “Take them,” Mickey said, waving a hand at the plate. “I’m on a diet.”
    A laugh burst from Andrew’s throat. Mickey blinked at him, then retook his seat.
    “Shit, you’re being serious,” Drew murmured. “Sorry, man. It’s just that, you know, you don’t look like you need it.” It was a white lie—a tiny untruth to spare his friend’s feelings.
    Mickey responded by unpausing his game and shooting a guy in the chest with an assault rifle. Drew shoved the rest of his cookie into his mouth, grabbed the plate off the coffee table, and walked down the hall to