With most of my questions and concerns answered and appeased, only one thing remains to be done about Miami: putting together the plan.
We’re having lunch in what Dean calls the “pack house” dining room. Despite it being the largest property in the compound, it’s not really all that big—three bedrooms at the most, I’d say, and maybe two bathrooms. It’s just as warm and comforting as Lucy’s house was. And, as an added bonus, Balto’s here—at least, what I hope to be Balto.
“We won’t be able to take a plane, since Quinn is still seventeen,” Dean is saying. He glances at me, frowning. “At least… I think so. Right?”
I don’t take offense by his question; until very recently, I didn’t know his age, either. “Yeah. Almost seven more months, unfortunately.”
“Doesn’t that mean Roswell could call
