Getting everyone loaded into the SUVs felt like trying to pack chaos into a suitcase. A suitcase that kept talking back.
“Koda, baby, shoes first,” I said, crouching to wrestle his tiny sneakers onto feet that were suddenly very wiggly. “We’re not going barefoot to Kansas City.”
He giggled and tried to climb into the front seat. “I drive!”
“Nice try, boss man.” I scooped him up and kissed his cheek. “You’re riding with me, Salvatore, Jace, Mama Red, and Mama. That’s enough personalities for one vehicle.”
Salvatore was already behind the wheel, tapping the steering wheel like we were late for a flight. Jace was loading bags into the back, and Mama Red was double-checking her list of “just-in-case” items. Mama was fussing over snacks like we were prepping for a cross-country road trip in
