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had the window cracked open all night for air and the bedroom was chilly. I slid on jeggings and ankle socks and pulled on a black graphic tee with a rhinestone skull on the front.
    Quickly, I did my morning routine: brush hair and pull it into a high ponytail, wash face and apply BB cream with sunscreen, brush teeth. I slicked on a coat of Sugar Fresh Rosé lip gloss and, pocketing it, headed downstairs.
    Mom and Dad were already up and in the kitchen.
    â€œDid you guys hear the coyotes last night?” I asked, pulling out a high-backed chair from the island. Before sitting, I went to the window and scanned our lawn. No protestors.
    â€œCoyotes?” Dad said. “Really?” His brown-gray eyes looked at me.
    â€œI can’t believe you didn’t hear them. They howled half the night. Then I was too freaked to sleep.”
    â€œI didn’t hear them, either,” Mom said. “Probably because we fell asleep with the TV on.”
    Mom poured me a glass of OJ and slid it across the counter to me. She went to the coffeepot and topped off the coffee in her favorite yellow mug.
    â€œCan I have a cup, please?” I asked, sipping my OJ.
    Mom shook her head. “Not until you finish your juice. Your father”—Mom shot Dad a look—“is on his sixth cup of coffee.”
    Dad grinned, looking up from his iPad. “My love,” he said. “It’s not my sixth cup.”
    I grabbed a raspberry-filled breakfast bar from a wicker basket on the counter.
    â€œYou haven’t had less than six,” Mom said, folding her arms.
    â€œI never said
less
,” Dad said. He had a gleam in his eye, like he was excited to be getting away with something. “I had two cups before you woke up.”
    â€œMichael,” Mom said, shaking her head. “It’s not even seven o’clock. At least drink some juice or have a piece of fruit.”
    Dad kissed Mom’s cheek. He tore a banana from the ripe bunch near the breakfast-bar basket.
    â€œIf we don’t get our morning coffee, it stunts our growth,” I said, putting an arm around Dad’s waist and grinning at Mom.
    Dad laughed and kissed the top of my head. Mom was barely able to conceal a smirk.
    â€œYou are your father’s daughter,” she said. “Now, hon, Dad and I need to talk to you about something before you leave.”
    â€œOkaaay,” I said slowly.
    â€œWe didn’t talk much yesterday about what happened,” Mom said. “You know there’s a very good chance you might run into protestors at the development site this morning. Or maybe even this afternoon.”
    â€œI’m not afraid of them,” I said, shrugging. “Dad’s not doing anything wrong.”
    â€œYou were really quiet after everyone left,” Mom said. She did her Mom-Scan of my face, looking for any signs that there was more to the story.
    â€œBrie, you
can
stay home today,” Dad said.
    â€œI’m
really
okay,” I said. “Stop.”
    I looked away when Dad leaned in to kiss Mom.
    â€œLike we talked about last night,” Mom said to Dad, “I’m going to be on a video call with another photographer, and then I’ve got to order a few new pieces of camera equipment.”
    â€œOkay, hon,” Dad said to Mom. “You almost ready?” Dad asked me.
    When I wasn’t working on my homeschool curriculum, I worked for Dad in his office. I’d been Dad’s secretary and website designer since I was twelve. He had started me out with small tasks like filing paperwork. Then, after a month, he taught me how to answer the phone with a “How may I help you?” and not a “What’s up?” By that point, I realized that Dad didn’t have—and really needed—some sort of online presence for his company. So, I got a book from the library about how to design a website. A few months later, Dad’s company website went live and