By the time the sun slips over the neat little roofs of their American suburb, the kitchen table looks like it’s been hit by a candy explosion—wrappers shining like confetti, plastic eggs cracked open, a rainbow avalanche of sugar spilling across the wood as if someone decided to dump an entire factory onto one piece of furniture.

Emma and Noah sit on either side like tiny dragons guarding treasure.

“I am so fed up with this candy,” their mom says, hands on her hips, staring at the mess like it personally betrayed her. She’s still in her work clothes, name badge from a local bank clipped to her shirt, mascara slightly smudged after a long day.

“Look!” Noah grins, holding up a pink rectangle. “I got a Starburst.”

Emma flicks a wrapper toward him. “Big deal. I got a Twix.”

He whistles. “Okay, that’s actually good.”

“Every year,” Mom mutters, pacing a line between the fridge and the table. “Every single year, it’s more than the last. We survived the Fall candy, and now this spring stuff—what is it even called? Spring baskets? Easter bags? Spring candy festival?”

“They have cotton candy flavor this year,” Noah says with the solemnity of a news anchor. “It’s limited edition.”

“I’m going to make sure those kids don’t have any more,” Mom declares, like a soldier going to war. “You hear me? I am not spending my entire Spring Break scraping chocolate off the couch and paying for cavity fillings.”

Emma ignores her and holds up a pastel lollipop. “Look! It’s a duck.”

“What are you two doing with those things on sticks?” Mom demands.

“Eating candy,” Emma says, licking the duck’s head.

“Yeah,” Noah adds. “It’s that time of year.”

“It is not that time of year,” Mom counters. “You act like it’s Halloween.”

“You gave us a whole bucket,” Noah points out. “We haven’t even finished it yet.”

“All you two are doing this Spring Break is eating candy,” she says.

“That’s what Spring Break is for,” Emma replies, as if it’s written in the U.S. Constitution.

“Yeah,” Noah chimes in. “We’re just trying to celebrate. School starts back up tomorrow.”

“And I want to be done with all this candy before that,” Mom insists. “I don’t care if it’s Easter candy, Spring candy, Bunny Day candy, whatever they’re calling it now. It leaves this house.”

“But Mom,” Emma protests, “we’re supposed to share.”

Noah nods. “Yeah! Don’t you remember the Spring candy exchange with your classmates? You take what you don’t like, someone trades you for something better. It’s, like, tradition.”

Mom sighs. She remembers something like that—a cafeteria in some American middle school decades ago, kids trading chocolate bunnies and jelly beans like stockbrokers. She rubs her temple.

“Fine,” she says. “You can take your stuff to school and do your candy swap. But you’d better not be bringing any of it back home. Got it?”

“Yes, Mom,” they say in unison.

“Of course you can trust us,” Noah adds quickly.

She narrows her eyes, but she’s too tired to argue. “We’ll see about that.”

The next morning, the corridor of their school smells like bleach, pencil shavings, and just a hint of chocolate that no one admits to. Kids in hoodies and sneakers cluster around lockers. Spring sunlight blazes across the American flag hanging in the main hallway, making it glow.

In the shadow of the drinking fountain, the real economy of the school is in motion.

“Noah,” a boy calls. “Hey, Noah!”

Noah Fisher, twelve years old with too-long hair and a grin he’s been told is “trouble,” adjusts the strap of his backpack and sidles over, a small plastic bag rustling inside his jacket.

It’s Zach, waiting with an egg-shaped plastic container in his palm.

“I’ll trade you one Starburst for two eggs,” Noah says, voice low, like he’s dealing in classified documents instead of sugar.

Zach scoffs. “No way. I want two Starbursts for one egg. These are premium mystery eggs, man.”

“I’ll trade you two eggs for two Starbursts,” another boy cuts in. “We can make it even.”

“Okay, deal,” Noah decides. “But I gotta know what’s in the eggs so I can choose.”

Zach’s eyes go wide. “No, man! That’s not the deal. They’re surprise eggs. You don’t get to peek.”

A few feet away, Emma sits on the edge of a bench, peeling the backing off a glittery sticker.

“My gosh, I love these stickers,” she says to her friend.

“And I love these spring M&M’s,” the girl replies, popping a pastel candy in her mouth. “You can only get them this time of year.”

Before they can share more, someone hisses, “You guys! Mrs. Vanderwall is coming.”

The hallway straightens itself like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“Hello, class,” says Mrs. Vanderwall as she glides into the science lab. She’s dressed in a cardigan and tidy slacks, her hair pulled back, the kind of teacher who looks like she alphabetizes her spices at home. On the whiteboard behind her is a neatly drawn frog.

“Hello, Mrs. Vanderwall,” the class answers in unison.

“This semester,” she begins, “you are lucky enough to be dissecting frogs.”

A chorus rises—half “cool,” half “ewwww.”

“Sounds cool,” Noah whispers to Zach.

Emma, seated nearby, wrinkles her nose. “I don’t want to,” she mutters.

“And before we do that,” Mrs. Vanderwall continues, “I’m going to be covering—”

She stops mid-sentence.

Her eyes land on something shiny on a desk near the front of the class.

“What’s this?” she says sharply, picking up a crinkled wrapper between two fingers like it’s hazardous waste. “Candy wrapper? Who does this belong to?”

A wave of innocent faces floods her direction.

“Wasn’t me,” Noah says quickly.

“Not me,” Emma adds.

“I don’t even like candy,” another kid lies.

“Me neither,” someone echoes.

“I think it was the previous class,” a girl offers. “I saw it when we came in here.”

Mrs. Vanderwall stares each of them down in turn. “Well, I don’t want to see any candy or any other funny business in this class. Do we understand? It’s detrimental to your health. It causes cavities, blood sugar spikes—”

“Diabetes?” someone suggests.

“Exactly,” she says. “And I would be remiss as your science teacher if I didn’t tell you about the dangers of eating too much processed sugar.”

A few kids shift uncomfortably, thinking of their secret stashes.

“What do you mean by processed sugar?” Noah asks, trying to sound curious and not guilty.

“Processed sugars are found in manufactured foods,” she explains. “Candy. Sweetened cereals. Soda pop. Common items such as jelly in a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

“But Mrs. Vanderwall,” a boy named Skip says, raising his hand, “what am I supposed to eat? They have a lot of that stuff in the lunchroom.”

“Well, Skip,” she replies, “I’ve been working with them about serving only healthy items. Like cauliflower. Eggplant. And healthy seafoods like sardines.”

The room erupts into groans.

“Ewwww,” Emma says under her breath.

“Well, enough of this fun stuff,” Mrs. Vanderwall says. “Now that you’re back from Spring Break, I want to talk to you about your upcoming science lab—”

She squints, mid-lecture.

“Noah,” she says slowly. “What is that on your face?”

“Uh… nothing,” he says, touching his cheek.

She steps closer.

“Is that one of those stickers that comes in the bunny eggs with the candy?” she asks, eyebrow arching. “Because you know how I feel about candy.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Noah admits, peeling the glittery bunny off. “But I only buy it for the stickers, not the candy.”

She gives him a look that says she’s not impressed, but she turns back to the whiteboard.

Noah exhales. That was close.

At lunch, the cafeteria is loud and echoing—the clatter of trays, the scrape of chairs, the crackle of snack bags. Outside the big windows, the flag on the pole snaps in the breeze, kids run laps around the track, and somewhere a whistle blows for recess.

At one long table, Emma and Noah sit with their friends. Trays pushed aside, they spread out their candy like gamblers laying out cards.

“What are you guys doing?” their friend Mia asks, balancing a carton of milk.

“We’re eating lunch,” Noah says.

“Duh,” Emma adds, though there isn’t a sandwich or vegetable in sight.

“Why eat the same old thing every day,” Noah asks, “when you can have… candy?”

He lifts a handful dramatically, wrappers catching the light.

Mia laughs. “Noah, you act like it’s Halloween.”

“It is Halloween,” he declares. “Twice a year. April and October. Candy months.”

Emma glances at the pile and then at her half-finished apple. “Seriously, Noah, I’m getting a little tired of eating candy,” she admits. Her stomach reminds her why.

“I tell you what,” Noah says smoothly. “Give me all your candy, and you won’t get sticky anymore.”

She narrows her eyes. “What?”

“I’m just being nice,” he replies, but his grin gives him away.

By the time they reach the gym for P.E., the candy buzz has turned to something else.

“Alright, everybody,” Coach Rivera calls, whistle swinging around his neck. “Lunges!”

The kids line up, groaning. They lunge down the gym, sneakers squeaking.

“Emma, come on,” he says. “You’re holding us back.”

She winces. Her stomach feels like there’s a whole piñata party in there.

“Stop,” she says, one hand pressed against her side.

“You know the drill,” he continues. “Let’s see some squats. Then we’ll finish with jumping jacks. Don’t quit on me now.”

Emma tries. She really does. But with every bounce, her stomach sloshes dangerously.

When class ends, she practically staggers out.

“Noah,” she says, clutching her belly. “I’m going upstairs to my room when we get home and do homework. No more candy.”

“No, no, no, no,” he says later, after they’ve walked home and climbed the stairs. He blocks the hallway like a tiny security guard. “Sit down. We need to talk.”

She drops her backpack. “What’s up?”

“I want to know…” He leans closer, eyes sharp. “How did you score those Kit Kats? I didn’t see those this morning.”

“Seriously?” she says. “I feel sick and you’re interrogating me over Kit Kats?”

“I’m running low,” he admits. “I need to know all sources.”

“Candy is not a mission, Noah,” she says. “It’s just candy.”

“That’s what they want you to think,” he mutters.

Downstairs, Mom calls, “Hey, kids! How was school today?”

They troop down. Emma holds herself like she’s fragile.

“We get to dissect a frog tomorrow,” Noah says, excited.

“I got kind of an upset tummy in P.E.,” Emma adds quietly.

“Aww, Emma, I’m so sorry,” Mom says, setting down her grocery bag. “Is there anything I can do?”

Her eyes land on the countertop.

“Noah? What are you doing with all that candy?”

There it is—spread on the counter like a crime scene, candy he’s unloaded from his backpack, sorted into piles.

“Well, Emma has some too,” he says.

“Hey! Traitor,” Emma protests.

“That’s it,” Mom says, reaching for a trash bag. “You two are going upstairs to do your homework, and I am taking all the candy.”

“Yes, Mom,” they mumble.

“Oh, man, that stinks,” Noah grumbles as they climb the stairs.

“Finally,” Emma sighs when she reaches her room. “I can do my homework without any candy around.”

But later that night, when the house is quiet and Mom thinks they’re asleep, Noah lifts his pillow.

Underneath is a smaller stash—reserves.

“I can’t believe Mom’s making me go to bed,” he whispers.

He grins at the hidden candy bar. “It’s a good thing I have this.”

The week after Spring Break, candy still rules the school—and Noah’s stash shrinks.

In the cafeteria, negotiations are louder and more desperate.

“Okay,” Zach says. “How about two Twix for four M&M’s?”

“Two for four?” Noah scoffs. “How about two Twix for two M&M’s? These are the only Twix I have.”

“Fine. Snickers?” another kid asks.

“Hey, Noah,” a boy at the end of the table calls. “Do you have any more of those surprise eggs?”

“No can do, Zach,” Noah says, feeling the precious emptiness of his pockets.

“Fine,” Zach says, turning away. “Let me make a deal for your Skittles then.”

“Sorry,” Noah replies. “Fresh out.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Noah, just tell them already.”

He sighs dramatically, looking at his small pile of remaining wrappers.

“All right,” he says. “We don’t have any more candy.”

There’s a collective gasp.

“No candy?” Mia says. “That stinks for you.”

“Sounds like you’re going to have to wait till Halloween,” another boy says.

“No, I’m not,” Noah replies.

“Oh, really?” Zach challenges. “Why is that?”

“Because,” Noah says, lowering his voice, “I’ve got a connection.”

Behind the school, near the dumpsters and the staff parking lot, the air smells like oil, cut grass, and a faint sweet trace of something forbidden.

Noah walks along the edge of the fence, glancing over his shoulder. The afternoon sky is pale blue, the kind you see in early spring across most of the U.S., when the air is still sharp but the promise of warmth is hanging there.

He stops under a tree.

“Hey, Slick,” he whispers. “You here? It’s me, Noah.”

A shape steps out from behind the trunk—a taller kid from the eighth grade, known simply as Slick because his hair always looks like it’s been styled for a commercial.

“Yeah, I’m here,” Slick says. “You got the funds?”

“Of course I’ve got the funds,” Noah says, pulling a crumpled wad of bills from his pocket—allowance, lunch money, coins collected from couch cushions.

“You got the merch?” he adds.

Slick smirks and lifts a small briefcase. He pops it open just enough for Noah to see.

Inside is a treasure trove. Chocolate eggs. Jelly beans. Chocolate-dipped marshmallow chicks. Candy as far as the eye can see.

“All right,” Noah breathes. “Let me inspect it.”

“Not until I have the funds,” Slick says.

“Fine,” Noah grumbles. “Here. Ten.”

“Ten?” Slick laughs. “You want all this for ten?”

Noah looks from the bills to the candy. “Fine. I’ll make it twenty.”

“Fifty or it’s no deal,” Slick replies.

“Fifty? All I’ve got is forty,” Noah says, horrified.

Slick stares at him for a long moment, then shrugs. “Fine. You’re lucky I’m a good guy. You got yourself a deal.”

They make the exchange like a tiny, sugar-fueled business meeting. Cash for candy.

By the time Noah walks back toward the school, his bag is heavier—and so is the trouble he doesn’t know he’s carrying.

The next day, Noah walks into science class with a briefcase instead of his usual backpack.

“Dude,” Zach whispers, eyes wide. “Why are you carrying that?”

“I’ve decided I’m going to take school more seriously,” Noah says smoothly. “No more backpacks. Business only.”

“That’s impressive,” Mrs. Vanderwall says as she strides past. “I wish I had more students like you.”

If only she knew.

“Put your books away,” she announces once everyone’s seated. “Because today we are going to dissect frogs.”

There are scattered squeals, groans, and a couple of pale faces.

She passes out trays, latex gloves, and small, preserved frogs.

“Here are your frogs,” she says. “I hope no one’s queasy.”

“Ewww,” Emma whispers, pushing hers away a little.

“Do I seriously have to dissect a frog?” she asks.

“No, Emma,” Mrs. Vanderwall replies. “You and your partners have to.”

The instructions begin.

“First,” the teacher says, “I want you to remove the legs. One partner takes the right leg, the other takes the left.”

Noah and Zach exchange a look. They begin cutting.

“For the next step,” Mrs. Vanderwall continues, moving between tables, “I want to make sure you’ve all found the stomach.”

Emma peers at the frog on her tray, stomach already swirling. “I think this is it,” she says uncertainly.

“Oh, I think he did,” her partner jokes, “but my stomach doesn’t feel so good.”

“Emma, knock it off,” another friend says. “We don’t want to get an F.”

“I can’t help it,” Emma says, swallowing hard. “I don’t feel well.”

“Emma,” Noah calls gently from the next table. “You can get through this. Just think happy thoughts.”

“I can’t,” she whispers. “My stomach…”

He glances down at his briefcase. His brain makes a familiar leap.

“Here,” he says, popping it open just enough so she can see. “Eat this. Candy always makes us feel better.”

From the doorway, a voice cuts in.

“Mrs. Vanderwall?” Emma says, holding something small in her hand.

“Yes, Emma?” the teacher replies.

“Is that… candy in your hand?” Mrs. Vanderwall asks, narrowing her eyes.

Emma freezes.

“No,” she says quickly. “I just found this on the floor.”

“Okay,” the teacher says slowly. “What is it?”

Emma winces. “Can I go to the girls’ room? I don’t feel well.”

“Fine,” Mrs. Vanderwall sighs. “Because I’m so easygoing, I’ll walk you to the girls’ room to make sure you’re okay.”

They leave, Emma clutching her stomach, the teacher suspicious.

The second the door swings shut, Noah straightens.

“Okay, everybody,” he says under his breath. “Now that the candy patrol is gone, who wants some?”

Hands shoot up around him.

He doesn’t see Mrs. Vanderwall’s shadow in the small window of the door when she returns a few minutes later.

“Oh, I think Emma’s going to be fine,” she says. “Just an upset stomach. I think it’s because of all the—”

She stops.

Her gaze locks on the briefcase. On the half-opened wrappers. On Noah, caught mid-handout.

“Candy?” she says, voice ice-cold. “What is with all the candy?”

The room goes dead silent.

“All right, young man,” she says, striding over. “You are in big trouble.”

“For having candy in my class?” Noah says weakly. “Why me? They ate it too!”

“All I know,” she replies, snapping the briefcase shut, “is you’re the supplier. And you’re going to the principal’s office. And when your sister’s done at the nurse’s office, I’m sending her too.”

Principal Andrews sits behind a broad wooden desk, the American flag in the corner of his office and a framed diploma on the wall behind him. He has the patient look of someone who has seen this kind of thing before.

“Noah,” he says, folding his hands. “Your teacher turned you in for possession of candy.”

Noah shrugs helplessly. “Well, I can’t help it.”

“Yes, you can,” the principal says. “Possession of candy is a personal choice.”

“No,” Noah protests. “April and October are candy months.”

“Is that so?” Principal Andrews says, one brow lifting.

He glances at Emma, sitting pale-faced in a chair with a small paper bag in her hand, just in case.

“Your sister is just as guilty,” he continues. “By the way, where is she?”

“Oh, she went to the nurse,” Noah says. “Her stomach…”

As if on cue, the door opens.

Emma steps in, bag still clutched.

“I called your mother,” Principal Andrews says. “She says she threw away all your candy at home.”

“Yeah, I know,” Noah mutters. “It’s so unfair.”

“Well, if she took all your candy,” the principal says, opening the confiscated briefcase and pulling out a chocolate egg, “then where did you get this?”

“Oh. I found it… outside the school,” Noah says weakly.

“Found it, huh?” Principal Andrews says. “There’s somebody here I think you should meet.”

He opens the side door.

“Oh. Hey, Noah,” says a familiar voice.

“Slick?” Noah blurts. “What are you doing here?”

“Go ahead and tell them why you’re here,” the principal says.

Slick shifts. “He had the mother lode,” he admits. “The candy warehouse. I, uh, wasn’t supposed to have all that.”

“All right,” Principal Andrews says, waving for the hall monitor. “Get him out of here. I’ll deal with these two later.”

When the door closes, he turns back to Noah and Emma.

“Now,” he says, “as far as you two go—”

“Principal Andrews?” Emma interrupts softly.

“Yes, Emma?”

“I don’t feel well,” she says honestly. “I think it was something I ate.”

He looks at her for a long moment, studying her pale face and the way she hunches over her stomach.

“I’m fine,” Noah blurts. Then he winces. “Well. Mostly.”

“Well, Emma,” Principal Andrews says, reaching under his desk, “in that case, I want you to take this bag in case you get queasy and go home.”

He hands her a spare.

“Well, Noah,” he continues. “I hope your sister is going to be okay. But as far as you, young man, you’re getting detention.”

Noah deflates. “I feel really stuck too,” he mutters.

“Great,” the principal says, handing him a second bag. “Take one of these too, because I don’t want you to have an accident in my office.”

Outside the school a little later, the afternoon sun is bright and unforgiving.

Emma and Noah step out, each with a small crinkly bag in hand. They look at each other.

“Noah,” Emma says. “What happened?”

“He’s sending me home too,” Noah says.

“But you’re not sick,” she says.

“Neither are you,” he counters.

She shrugs faintly. “Yeah, I am.”

He smirks. “Nothing a little candy can’t fix.”

“You’ve got a point there,” she says, and for one reckless second, they both laugh.

“Just wait till Halloween,” he adds.

They have no idea that by the time Halloween rolls around, things at home will feel very different.

By Fall, the air has changed.

The leaves on the neighborhood trees burn orange and red. Plastic pumpkins line suburban porches. A fake skeleton hangs from a balcony down the street. On one roof, an inflatable ghost waves at passing cars.

Noah and Emma stand in the living room with two full buckets of Halloween loot—candy bars, gummies, caramels, taffy, the works.

“I’ll trade you this Milky Way for those red vines,” Noah says.

“First off, it’s a Twizzler,” Emma replies, clutching it closer. “And I’m keeping this one. If you want some, you’re going to have to make me a really good deal.”

“Really?” he says. “You’re going to treat your poor little brother that way?”

“Nice try, Noah,” she says. “Give me two Sour Patch Kids, and I’ll give you one of these.”

“Oh no,” Noah whispers. “Here she comes.”

Their new stepmom—Hannah—walks in, kicking off her heels by the door. She’s in jeans and a blazer, phone in hand, perfectly highlighted hair falling over her shoulders.

“Oh, you kids are back already,” she says. “It’s not even dark outside.”

“We filled our buckets before eight,” Emma says. “And Dad said to be home by then.”

“Oh, your buckets for fall,” Hannah says, eyeing the loot like an investor. “Let me just take my cut.”

“What?” Noah bursts out. “That’s not fair.”

“You know,” Hannah says cheerfully, already plucking a few of the best pieces from each bucket, “you kids are very lucky to have me as your new stepmom. Quality control, that’s what I provide. I only take the really good stuff.”

She winks and disappears toward the kitchen.

Later that night, Emma collapses into bed, dreamily chewing the last of a chocolate bar.

“Well, you know why they call it sweet dreams,” she mumbles.

In the morning, Noah wakes up to the smell of coffee and the faint rustle of a suitcase being zipped.

“Hey there, tiger,” his dad says, leaning in the doorway. He’s wearing a polo shirt with the name of his company embroidered on it, a carry-on bag at his feet. “How was trick-or-treating last night?”

“Oh, it was really good,” Noah says. “Except Emma’s not much of a sharer.”

Dad chuckles. “Well, I’m sure you got lots of good stuff this year.”

“Oh yeah,” Noah says quickly. “I got a good stash. I mean, I got some.”

Dad nods. “Well, I wanted to remind you, I’m going on that business trip to Orlando this morning.”

“Oh,” Noah says. “I’d like to go, but I don’t feel so well.”

“Really?” Dad asks. “Are you going to have to skip school?”

“Yeah,” Noah says, clutching his stomach just a little. “I think I have a stomach bug or something.”

“Are you sure you didn’t just eat too much candy?” Dad asks, amused.

“Oh no, Dad,” Noah says. “Candy never makes me sick.”

Dad laughs. “Okay. I’ll have your stepmom take care of you today. She’s got the day off.”

“She’s not my mom,” Noah mutters under his breath.

“Either way,” Dad says, ruffling his hair, “I’ll see you when I get back from Orlando.”

Hours later, when the house is quiet and the living room TV is playing a rerun of some sitcom, the phone rings.

Hannah appears at the foot of the stairs holding the cordless phone. “Wake up,” she calls. “Your dad’s on the phone.”

Noah stumbles down. “What is it?”

Dad’s voice comes through, warm and excited. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah,” Noah says. “I’m feeling much better.”

“Good,” Dad says. “Because I have a surprise. Can Emma and you come see me in Orlando?”

Noah’s eyes go wide. “That’s why you called?”

“That’s why I called,” Dad says. “I bought you three airline tickets.”

He glances at Hannah, who is scrolling through something on her phone.

“Emma!” Noah shouts. “We’re going to Orlando. Just you and me.”

“What do you mean, three?” Emma asks when she appears at the bottom of the stairs.

“Well,” Dad says over the phone, “your stepmom has to take you.”

Hannah looks up. “Orlando?” she says. “Theme parks, right?”

Noah grins. He imagines the rides, the flashing lights, the roller coasters he’s seen on TV. “I’m so excited to go to Orlando,” he says.

“Yeah,” Emma adds. “The rides are world class.”

“When do we board?” Noah asks.

“I don’t know,” Hannah says, checking her watch. “But we’ve got time. I’m going to get some food before we get on this plane. Do you kids want anything?”

“Oh, no,” Noah says quickly. “We’ve got plenty.”

Emma pats her backpack. “Yeah. We’re good.”

“Okay,” Hannah says. “Fine by me.”

At the airport, the giant windows look out over planes taxiing on the tarmac, their white bodies gleaming under an American sky. The boarding area is full of families in sweatshirts and kids in character T-shirts, Orlando-bound.

In the corner, Noah and Emma huddle around their backpack, sneaking pieces of candy they’d hidden against all rules.

“You shouldn’t eat so much before a flight,” Emma says faintly, remembering the nurse’s office.

“Candy never makes me sick,” Noah insists. “Besides, airplane snacks are tiny. We have to stock up.”

Soon, a flight attendant’s voice comes over the speaker.

“Passengers, as we prepare for liftoff, we’d like to make sure your seat belts are fastened, your tray tables are in the upright and locked position, and all your personal items and luggage are safely stowed. Have a safe and pleasant flight with us today to Orlando.”

On board, the plane hums softly as it pushes back from the gate.

Noah buckles his seatbelt.

“I don’t feel so good,” he whispers.

“Neither do I,” Emma says, pressing a hand to her stomach.

“Do you have the stomach flu too?” he asks.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” she says.

The flight attendant notices their pale faces and the wrappers poking out of their pockets.

“Here,” she says, handing them small paper bags. “Take these.”

She turns to Hannah, who is scrolling on her phone in the aisle seat, headphones in.

“Ma’am,” the flight attendant says. “You should know, kids aren’t supposed to bring this much candy on a plane. It can make them sick. You may want to monitor how much they’re eating.”

Hannah looks up, shrugs. “They’re not my kids,” she says lightly. “I’m just along for the ride.”

The attendant blinks, taken aback, then looks at the kids again.

In the confusion, somewhere between their queasy stomachs and their stepmom’s indifference, someone makes a decision.

“You unaccompanied kids need to come with me,” a crew member says gently. “We’ll move you closer to the front.”

“That’s fine,” Hannah says, waving a hand. “Take them off my hands. They’re nothing but trouble anyway.”

Noah and Emma are guided forward, bags in hand, eyes wide. They don’t see the look the attendant gives Hannah, sharp and disapproving.

They just feel the plane rise, their ears pop, their stomachs twist.

Somewhere over the Southeastern United States, Emma leans over her bag, breathing carefully.

Noah squeezes his shut eyes, gripping the armrest.

By the time the wheels hit the runway in Orlando, they’ve both used the bags.

Out in the arrivals area, a crowd waits behind a metal barrier, holding signs, checking phones, craning their necks for reunions.

“Dad!” Noah shouts as soon as he spots him.

Their father’s face lights up. He’s in a polo and jeans now, a lanyard from his conference badge hanging around his neck.

“How was your flight?” he asks as they barrel into him.

“It was… good,” Emma says weakly.

“He got airsick on the plane,” she adds, pointing at Noah.

“And stepmom left us,” Noah blurts. “They moved us, and she just stayed in her seat.”

“What?” Dad says sharply. “Your stepmom isn’t here with you?”

“Oh, she’s still on the plane,” Noah says. “She’s sitting by herself. We’re not going to need her anymore.”

Dad looks confused. “Really? Why is that?”

A voice floats across the terminal.

“Emma! Noah!”

They turn.

Standing just beyond the security rope is a woman they haven’t seen in what feels like forever, but whose face is etched into every memory of home. Her hair is pulled back in a familiar ponytail, her eyes bright with tears, her carry-on bag at her feet.

“Mom!” Emma cries.

“Mom!” Noah echoes.

They run to her, weaving through travelers and suitcases. She drops to her knees just in time to catch them both, laughing and crying at the same time.

“What?” Dad says, stepping closer, his own voice unsteady. “We’re a family again,” he says softly, as if he still can’t quite believe it.

She nods, holding the kids tight. “Feels so good,” she whispers into their hair.

Noah pulls back first, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“I’m hungry,” he announces.

Emma giggles. “Me too.”

Their mom stands up, wrapping an arm around each of them.

“Let’s get something to eat that isn’t candy,” she says with a smile.

They exchange a look.

“Okay,” Noah says. “But after that…”

Emma grins. “Let’s get candy.”

Mom shakes her head, laughing. “Some things never change.”

They walk toward the glowing signs of the terminal shops together—under the humming lights, under the big digital screen that reads “Welcome to Orlando,” under a sky that, for the first time in a long time, feels like it’s opening up instead of closing in—just one more American family with too much history, too many stories, and a future that, like a big bag of mixed candy, is unpredictable, messy, and a little bit sweet.