“The enticing odor of French onion soup, only implied in her room, rose full force from the stove and embraced her in a warm hug. Grape reached for the ladle, desperate for a taste. “Do you mind going to get him?” Ugh. She put the ladle down and trudged back upstairs. If it was her brother’s sole mission in life to spoil even the little joys Grape had left, then he was succeeding. “Try not stomping on every step,” her mother called, her voice as pleasant as pumpkin pie. Grape rolled her eyes. She stomped harder on the next step to emphasize her independence and then tread softly up the staircase, because she was no fool.”