You’re 12 years old and you live on Jordan St. You can’t find your neighborhood on Google Maps, ‘cause it’s been swallowed up by another neighborhood with a catchier name. They do that so they can put up more new buildings with shiny glass fronts that shine back at you like a black mirror so you don’t ever forget that you’re outside of them.

At least that’s what your sister, Jaimie says. But you don’t know — honestly, you wouldn’t want to live in a building that looked back at you like that. Your building doesn’t. Yours is made of bricks that look like they’ve soaked up a hundred different colors at some point or another and there’s this certain time of day when the sun is going down and the sky can’t make up its mind if it’s orange or brown, and you swear to God that you can’t tell where the top of your building ends and the sky starts. Your dad calls this the magic hour and when you were a little kid you thought he made that up himself and you hoped that one day you could come up with perfect names for little things like that too.

Jaimie says a lot of things, to be honest. Your dad used to say she was thirteen going on thirty, but she’s sixteen now, so you’re not really sure how old that makes her in Jaimie-years.

She’s always been the one in your family. The smart one. The funny one. The she’s-going-places one. You’re still trying to figure out which one you are. At least you’re pretty sure you’re the one that your dog Felix likes the best because you always sneak forkfuls of mac and cheese under the table for him when your mom isn’t looking, and that has to count for something.