The sun was starting to set over the McMansion hellscape as the last of the balloons bobbed lifelessly against the overpriced wrought-iron fence. The businessman’s check had cleared—mercifully—and the van was loaded.

Mostly.

Cassie climbed in last, her arms covered in smeared cake frosting and possibly face paint. “That kid spit on me. Twice.”

“I saw,” Maya muttered, arms crossed, rage-smoldering. “You flinched the first time. That was your mistake.”

Thane slammed the side door shut with enough force to rattle the window seals. “Drive. If we don’t make this next gig, I swear I will bite someone.”

Mark, already in the passenger seat, glanced back with the expression of a man who had accepted the universe’s cruelty. “What was that, like, thirty-five miles of emotional damage?”

Jonah grunted as he shoved his drums back into place in the rear. “This is how I die. Not on stage. Not in glory. Just slowly melting into a puddle of rage in a van that smells like fruit punch and broken dreams.”

Gabriel slid into the driver’s seat with a grin that could only be described as bravely optimistic bordering on oblivious. “Hey, c’mon! The little guy hugged me at the end. Said we were his favorite band!”

Cassie deadpanned, “He also asked if we were part of Paw Patrol.”

That got a low growl out of Thane.

“I swear,” he muttered, digging claws into his seatbelt, “if one of you so much as mentions ‘Baby Shark,’ I will end this tour.”

The van lurched into gear and pulled out of the neighborhood. The silence inside was thick enough to chew.

Then…

POP.
From the back.

A glitter balloon.

The last one.

It exploded with a faint twinkling sound and showered the interior in a final, fatal sparkle storm.

“NOOOOOOOOO!” Jonah screamed, smacking at his sleeves. “IT’S IN MY DRUM PADS!”

“IT’S IN MY FUR!” Mark shouted, sounding like someone discovering a cursed tattoo mid-concert.

Cassie coughed. “I swear this stuff multiplies. I had glitter in my nose.”

Thane was vibrating. Actively vibrating. He turned slowly toward Gabriel.

“You.”

Gabriel flinched. “Look, I didn’t know! He said ‘private party,’ not ‘cake-fueled hell rave for six-year-olds!’”

Maya grabbed a bag of gummy worms off the floor and hurled it at him. “You said we only play as a pack.”

“Yeah, well…” Gabriel shrugged, catching the bag with one hand. “You’re still alive. That’s something!”

Thane pinched the bridge of his muzzle. “No talking. Nobody talks. Until we’re at the next venue. And if there’s a bouncy castle there, I will burn it down myself.”

“Can we at least get food?” Jonah grumbled.

“There’s still cake,” Gabriel offered.

The growl that rose in the van could’ve registered on seismic equipment.

Mark, ever the voice of reason—albeit exhausted reason—sighed. “I’ll call ahead. Tell them we’re twenty minutes late. And maybe also warn them that we’re all one sugar crash away from homicide.”