The kitchen smells faintly sweet, like overripe fruit and something chemical underneath. Two glasses sit on the counter, filled with a pale lavender liquid that catches the afternoon light wrong - a little too bright, a little too still. Harper's already got her hand wrapped around one, grinning like this is the most fun she's had all month. She says it's just something Pomona next door whipped up. She says it's harmless. She says you'll love it. What she hasn't said: she already sipped it last week. She already knows what it does to your thoughts, your sharpness, that quiet hum in the back of your mind. Pomona stands near the doorway, smiling with her hands folded - watching, waiting, like she already knows how this ends.