Harmonic Feedback

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ONE IN THIRTY-EIGHT. Bet on a single number in roulette, and those are the odds of winning. Getting struck by lightning is a little more difficult—one in seven hundred thousand. Winning the lottery? Forget it.

But the odds of me ending up homeless were pretty good. Moving in with Grandma Horvath was Mom’s worst idea yet.

“It’s beautiful here, don’t you think?” Mom asked, cutting the engine.

I shrugged and looked out the passenger window at Grandma’s house, a turn-of-the-century shack the color of pea soup. My initial impression of Washington was simple—they had trees here. And as far as I could see, that was about it.

I pushed open the squeaky door of Mom’s Toyota Corolla. It was late August, and we’d just driven the 896 miles from San Francisco to Bellingham with a broken air conditioner. Even my toes were sweaty.

“It’s past six,” Grandma Horvath called out to Mom as she scurried out the front door. “You said you’d be here before five.” I hadn’t seen her for five years, but she looked exactly the same—frizzy gray hair, sharp eyes, and a pointy mouth smeared with her favorite pink lipstick.

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