The power came back at midnight. The lights blinked on, revealing everyone's faces—tired, streaked with marshmallow, oddly peaceful.

There were seven of them now: her mother Mira, her stepfather Carlos, his three children (Marco, Sofia, and little Ezra), and her own brother, Sam. Lia was the hyphen in an unfinished sentence. She moved through hallways where the paint still smelled fresh, but the cracks had already started showing.

“Ghosts?” she said, mouth full of foam.

“Mom says when families blend, you bring the ghosts of the old ones with you,” Ezra said. “So I think my mom’s ghost is probably sitting on the couch, and your dad’s ghost is in the garage. They’re probably just staring at each other.”