“How’d the exam go?” Owen asks her, nervous like an older brother.

“Do you remember my nickname?” Tess says, smiling.

The Whiz is a junior at Strake, the youngest student in the school’s history. Owen believes she’s going to be dean by the time she’s our age.

“See you at the party,” I tell them both before making my way down the block.

I pause outside my house, four streets down from the Hart’s. A three-story sustainable townhome with a rooftop garden and large, open windows that not only let the light in, but show that we have nothing to hide.

Mira and I built our new home with Haven on the site of our childhood residence. Where the latter was sterile, a showpiece full of secrets, this place is full of warmth and openness. And clutter.

The defining feature for me is that this home has no basement. Mira and I both have our own rooms, something I never dreamt possible.

I smell a home-cooked meal as soon as I open the front door. Mira’s in the kitchen with Haven, preparing carnitas, Lucía’s recipe, sent just for the occasion.

I glance at a collage of photos on the wall. Lucía and Skye together on the motorcycle that took me and Mira from Kipling’s west Texas safe house all the way up to our grandmother in Colorado. We shipped the bike’s namesake to the woman herself, after she and Skye stayed behind in Mexico City to help the People’s Militia maintain control of the Salazar strongholds. Lucía’s brother and mother are there too, now that their former home is free of the cartel.

Beside their photograph is Emery—now Senator Jackson of Texas—in her long yellow coat, shaking hands with President Gordon at the White House. She’s part of the new crop of senators building the foundation of our country’s new government. Slowly, painstakingly, the states are becoming united again.

When I reach the bookcase filled with my grandmother’s old journals and our growing collection of stories, I touch the frames of the photographs displayed inside. Photos of our family taken from Rayla’s apartment in Denver. The secret photo we found inside my father’s Director badge, of our once-illegal family of four, now sits beside new memories we’ve made with Haven, Owen, and Theo, and all the friends who now make up our world.

“It smells delicious,” I say, making my way into the kitchen. “How many have you already had?”

Mira and Haven smile, guiltily.

“Don’t worry, we’ve saved you plenty,” Mira assures me.

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” Haven declares, licking her fingers.

“I think we deserve all the tacos we want today,” I say.

I pop a piece of spiced meat into my mouth, and it’s like I’ve never truly tasted real food before. “Holy Whitman, I don’t think I’ll ever eat printed food again.”

We laugh, knowing full well that we all cook about as well as we can dance, which is terribly.

I roll up my sleeves, ready to contribute my part of the meal, a multilayered chocolate cake. I’m determined to make one with my own hands.

It’s a family tradition, started by my mother and then perfected by Gwen, our housekeeper and friend.

Except mine will be smothered in vanilla buttercream icing.

New decade, new traditions.

And this one will have twenty candles on top.

Mira and I stand in the greenhouse that Owen and Theo rebuilt for our neighborhood. Our fingers are coated with raw earth, and there’s the smell of lightning in the air.

I’m more content than I’ve ever been.

The birthday girls are late for their own party. But we were missing something. The centerpiece.

“Our first harvest looks beautiful.” Mira admires the rows upon rows of bright-yellow black-eyed Susans.

“They look strong,” I say, appreciating what we were able to regrow.

The first wildflowers to grow back after a fire. Our mother’s favorite.

“Everyone’s waiting for us back at the house,” Mira says. But her wistful voice doesn’t sound rushed.

“I got you something,” she says, heading to the corner of the greenhouse. There’s no surveillance anymore, just speakers playing gentle music.

She comes back with a bottle of Japanese Nikka whisky.

“Happy birthday, Ava,” she says as she holds out the bottle. “Cheers to us.”

I smile, take a swig, and smack in satisfaction as the warm liquid burns down my throat to settle in my stomach like a furnace on a cold night.

“Cheers to us, sister,” I say. “Happy birthday.”

She takes a drink and her eyes water, but she smiles, just as contented as I am. Neither of us makes a move to leave. We just stand there, in the glass-walled greenhouse, listening to the distant thunder rolling in, staring at our garden of yellow flowers.

When the rain strengthens from a pitter-patter on the roof to a full-on downpour, we know we’re in trouble.

The first shower of the year and we’re caught.

“Nothing for it,” I say, taking another shot of whisky.

“You ready?” Mira asks me.

“Ready,” I say, grabbing her hand.

We burst from the greenhouse door and out into the storm. Halfway to our house, we stop to dance in the rain.

Two laughing, utterly bedraggled sisters, ready for their party.