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Patty, my cousin, stood in the kitchen doorway, making no effort to intervene. Her paint-stained fingers gripped a coffee mug that said Tears of My Enemies in bright red font.

She came by her artistic streak honestly. Her parents—Uncle Mark and Aunt Susan—were carefree, hippie souls who spent most of the year traveling between artisan markets, pop-up galleries, and outdoor art exhibits. They lived out of a retrofitted campervan half the time, which had given Patty a fierce independent streak, a deep love for whimsy, and a total immunity to traditional family expectations.

She noticed me and pointed toward the boys. “Your problem now.”

This happened often.

I sighed. “What’s going on?”

Both boys turned. Mason looked relieved, but Trevor’s expression turned to one of betrayal.

“He owes me twenty dollars,” Mason said.

Trevor held up both hands. “I do not dispute the debt.”

“That’s promising,” I said.

“I’ve been trying to pay him.”

“No, you’ve been explaining payment processing,” Mason argued.

Trevor looked at me. “I sold three custom key chains and a resin trinket dish through CraftHive. They hold new sellers’ funds until the end of the month to protect buyers.”

“Why did you borrow money from Mason?”

“I needed UV resin.”

“Don’t you already have tons of resin?” I asked.

“Yes, but that’s casting resin.”

I waited.

Trevor’s brow furrowed. “They’re different.”

I believed him. Trevor cycled through interests with enough enthusiasm to keep several craft stores profitable. He’d taken up needle felting in January, soapmaking in February, and spent most of March producing miniature clay mushrooms that appeared throughout the neighborhood without explanation.

The adults often treated his new obsessions as another abandoned project waiting to happen, and most became frustrated pretty quickly with him. I didn’t blame them, though. His interests arrived quickly and departed without notice, leaving half-used supplies and ambitious plans behind.

Still, every once in a while, he retained a skill or the confidence that came from making an object that hadn’t existed before his hands got involved.

Trevor was like a little brother to me. His parents were ambassadors for our pack and often traveled to meet with other pack leaders, leaving him behind and to his own devices.

Mason crossed his arms. “I need the money today.”

“Why today?” I asked.

“I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

“For what?”

“A road trip.”

Trevor leaned toward me. “With his girlfriend.”

Mason glared at him. “That’s irrelevant.”

“It’s extremely relevant,” Trevor argued. “She’s from the Grayson pack, and her parents only let her go because Mason promised he had enough emergency cash in case the car broke down or something else weird happened.”