This was not his bedroom; this was definitely not his apartment. It was a single room, with a small table across from the bed and a fireplace on the back wall. When he looked out the window, he could see evergreen trees and the chatty bird who wanted everyone to know what his plans for the day were. The walls and floor were plain wood, and a small painting of a tree hung on the wall. At the end of the bed—which was not Brian’s normal bed—Pat looked about two minutes away from an anxiety attack. Mentally, Brian gave Pat a pass for what he would usually consider an overreaction. “Are we,” Brian started, then tried again: “Is this—?” Pat nodded, holding out a small yellow pouch with a parsnip drawn on the front and an open letter addressed to Brian.

Your conversation with your mom is less informative than your conversation with your sister. You text: > Hey so are you kicking me out of the house for Thanksgiving or what She responds: > Dont put it like that > But yes > Hv fun w/the gberts! Followed by a series of emoji: a turkey, a pie, a kiss, and a firework.