Page 97 of Felix

Rebecca makes a sad sound. “That’s too bad. Well, at least take some pecan pie home for her. Mom makes great pecan pie.”

“That she does,” Emil says, giving me a little smile over his shoulder.

I push his glasses up his nose.

When Emil’s phone chimes, he whips his head back around and swears. I bite my tongue as he opens up the app he installed on his phone just the other day.

“What’s that?” Rebecca asks, leaning over to get a better view of the screen.

“It’s a pet cam,” Emil murmurs, practically holding his breath as the video loads. One of the crabs is moving, which is why it sent an alert. He has it set to chime at any detectable motion.

We all watch as the new crab makes its way across one end of the terrarium. He and Arthur haven’t had a single altercation, but Emil has been doting over them like the mothering crab daddy he is. It’s beyond adorable, but I don’t dare repeat that sentiment now.

Emil relaxes as the new crab climbs into the submersible water dish.

“Aw,” Rebecca says. “He’s swimming. Is that the new one? You never told me his name.”

“That’s because I haven’t named him yet,” Emil says.

“Emil,” his sister says sternly. “You’ve had him for over a month. He needs a name.”

“Yeah,” Henry puts in.

Emil huffs a laugh. “I don’t know what to choose. Nothing matches Sir Arthurpod, His Royal Cuteness, Burrower of Sand and Creator of Dreams.”

Rebecca clicks her tongue. “It doesn’t have to match, you doof. He’s his own crab. It just has to be right for him.”

“Well, shit,” I mutter before clamping a hand over my mouth. “Fuck, I can’t stop swearing around your siblings.”

Emil snorts as Rebecca titters a laugh.

We all jolt when someone yells, “Dinner!”

“See?” Henry says, pocketing his video game as he stands. “Can’t miss it.”

Emil shoots me a grin as the four of us make our way downstairs. Emil’s family is so big, there’s a table set up in the kitchen and another in the more formal dining room. I follow my boyfriend, plating up at the counter where a selection of classic American Thanksgiving dishes are spread. There’s turkey, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and cranberry sauce, to name a few. But there’s also French onion soup Emil’s mom made and a fig spread most of the family slathers on their rolls. I assume those particular dishes are part of their tradition.

Thanksgiving for me growing up was a mishmash of the American holiday and the Korean one my grandma celebrated before she and my grandpa moved to the states. Instead of turkey, my grandma prepared traditional Korean food, and we gathered at her apartment, just me, her, and my mom. It was the one time a year I swear my mother softened, just a little.

My mom stopped coming to Thanksgiving when I turned eighteen, as if her obligation to me was complete. After that, it was just me and my grandma, celebrating Chuseok in November instead of during the eighth lunar month. But it was our tradition, and we kept it going.

This was the first year my grandma wasn’t able to cook.

“You okay?” Emil asks softly.

I give him a quick nod. “Yeah, of course. Ready to eat?”

He watches me for a moment longer before nodding. We take our seats in the dining room, and I finally meet Emil’s dad, who we missed during our earlier rounds. He looks like a gruffer version of Emil, a little harder around the edges and worn by time.

“Emil, how’s your semester going?” the older man asks, cutting into his turkey.

Emil finishes his sip of water before answering. “Good. I’m taking this class on cognitive biases that’s fascinating. Like the frequency illusion? How, once you actively take note of something, you’re more likely to notice it again and again?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

He turns to me. “Say someone tells you about this all-natural brand of soap they’ve started buying. All of a sudden, you start noticing it at the store and seeing advertisements for it on TV, leading you to believe you’re encountering that soap more frequently. In actuality, it’s been there all along, but you simply weren’t perceiving it because your brain was filtering out the information, not deeming it noteworthy or important enough to catalogue.”

“Like selective vision?” I ask.

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