“He made it work somehow,” Sofia said, nodding at Tick as she stirred. “Magic Boy himself.”

Tick did his best to smile, but it didn’t last.

Two hours later, the homemade meal passed Sofia’s inspection—barely. She kept insisting the sauce needed to simmer the rest of the day to taste perfect, but finally gave in to the impatient hunger groans of Paul and Tick. It was worth every minute, Tick thought as he shoveled in the food, not caring that he’d already spilled sauce on his scarf once and his shirt twice. He felt much better about things now that he wasn’t starving.

“I’m not gonna lie to ya,” Paul said through a huge bite, a vampire-like drip of red sauce streaked on his chin. “This is the best thing I’ve eaten in my entire life.”

Sofia sat back in her chair, pressing a hand to her heart. “Did you, Paul Rogers from Florida—King Smarty Pants himself—just say something nice to me?”

“Yes, ma’am, I did. And I meant every word of it. Dee-lish.”

“It’s really good,” Tick chimed in. “I’ll never doubt you again about your family’s claim to fame.”

Several moments passed, everyone too busy eating to talk. Sofia slurped her spaghetti, sounding like a renegade octopus trying to climb a slippery metal pole. Tick almost made a joke, but didn’t want to waste any breath when there were still noodles on his plate.

Paul wiped a big swath of sauce from his plate with a piece of garlic bread and shoved the whole thing in his mouth. “Man,” he mumbled as he chewed, “I can’t wait to visit more Realities so I can check out the ladies.”

Tick almost choked on a laugh. “Yeah, right. You’d be lucky to get a date with Rutger’s little sister.” Tick’s friend Rutger was an incredibly short and fat man from the Eleventh Reality. And full of pranks.

Paul shrugged. “As long as she’s not quite so . . . bowling-ballish, I’m cool with that. Paul ain’t picky.”

“Good thing, too,” Sofia said. “No girl I know would give you a second glance.”

“Oh, yeah? And why’s that?”

Sofia put down her fork and looked him square in the eyes, her face set in matter-of-fact stone. “Your ears are crooked.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your. Ears. Are. Crooked.” Sofia emphasized each word as if Paul spoke a foreign language, then folded her arms and raised her eyebrows.

“My ears are crooked,” Paul repeated, deadpan.

“Yes.”

“My ears are not crooked.”

“Yes, they are.”

“No, they’re not.”

“Crooked.”

Paul reached up and felt both of his ears, rubbing them between his thumbs and forefingers. “What does that even mean? How could they be crooked?”

Sofia pointed at Paul’s face. “Your left ear is almost half an inch lower than your right one. It looks ridiculous.”

“No way.” Paul looked to Tick for help. “No way.”

Tick leaned forward, studying Paul’s face. “Sorry, big guy. Crooked as bad lumber.”

“Where’s a mirror?” Paul half-yelled, standing up and running for the bathroom. A few seconds later, his shriek echoed down the hall: “Tick! My ears are crooked!”

Tick and Sofia looked at each other and burst out laughing.

A dejected Paul came slouching down the hall; he pulled back his chair and collapsed onto the table. Then he held up a finger, like he had a brilliant idea. “Fine, but I have beautiful toenails—here, let me show you—”

“No!” Sofia and Tick shouted together.

Thankfully, the low rumble of the garage door opening saved the day. Tick’s family was home.

“Well, if it’s not my three favorite heroes in the world,” Tick’s dad said as he stumbled through the door, both arms full of packages and bags—new school clothes, by the looks of it. “How’d the spaghetti experiment go? Smells great.” Tick knew what his dad was really thinking: Give me some. Now! The guy loved to eat, and his big belly showed it.

“The way these boys ate,” Sofia said, “I’d say it went pretty well.”

Paul moaned with pleasure, rubbing his belly. “Yes, sir, Mr. Higginbottom. The chef is a tyrant, but she can cook like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Best I’ve ever had,” Tick agreed, just as his mom entered from the garage. “Oh, sorry, Mom. Yours is good too.”

“It’s okay, Atticus,” Mom said as she set a couple of bags down on the counter. “I’d hope a young woman from a family well-known for their spaghetti would be able to beat mine any day.”

Dad shook his head. “I don’t know. You sure do know how to add spices to that Ragu sauce.”

“Very funny,” Mom replied.

Newly driving Lisa and newly turned five-year-old Kayla came through next, both holding bags of their own.

“Whoa, Mom,” Tick said. “How much stuff did you buy?”

“Enough to keep three kids clothed for a year.” She pointed a finger at Tick. “No growing until next summer. That’s an order.”

“Did you kill anyone driving to the mall, sis?” Tick asked.

Lisa gave him a mock evil stare. “Just one old lady—and I hit her on purpose.”

“Wow,” Paul said. “Sounds like—”

A sudden crack from upstairs interrupted him; a booming sound of splitting, shattering wood shook the entire house. A plate fell from the counter and broke on the floor. Kayla shrieked and ran to her mom.

“What the—?” Dad said, already on the move out of the kitchen and down the hall, everyone following behind him. As his dad bounded up the stairs as quickly as he could move his big body, Tick anxiously looked around him to see what had caused the commotion.

Through a swirling cloud of dust and debris, Tick could see a large, silvery metal tube with a sharp, tapered end jutting from the wall outside Tick’s room, splinters of ripped wood holding it in place. It looked as if it had been shot from a cannon, a dud bomb lodged in the drywall.

“What on earth?” Mom said in a shaky voice, putting a hand on her husband’s arm.

Dad had no answer; Tick hurried past him to his bedroom door and opened it, expecting to see a disaster area—broken windows, a gaping hole in the side of the house, something. But his breath caught in his throat when he saw no damage at all—not a crack or tear in the ceiling, the windows, or the walls. His room was in perfect shape. The only thing out of place was the other end of the metal tube which stuck out of the wall to his left. It also had a tapered end.