If you asked the desert to cough up something magical, cursed, and covered in duct tape, it would probably hand you the exact van the crew found behind Soup Can Sally’s shack.

  It had been there for decades—wedged between a tipped-over phone booth and a skeleton in sunglasses—gathering rust and stories. A bulbous, rounded van from the 1960s, painted a long-faded seafoam green, with giant peace signs and flower decals still clinging for dear life to its peeling skin. It had a name spray-painted on the back in crooked red letters:

  "THE COSMIC BEAN."

  “Holy crap,” said Peppa, eyes wide. “It’s perfect.”

  “No,” said Alex. “It’s hideous.”

  “Same thing,” replied Peppa, already climbing inside.

  The inside of the van smelled like incense, beef jerky, and possibly a raccoon crime scene. The seats were sun-bleached to a sad orange. The steering wheel had teeth marks. There were stickers everywhere: Make Love Not War, Alien Inside, Jimmy Hoffa Is My Dad.

  Twig, now wearing six mismatched watches on one arm, crawled into the back and yelled, “DIBS ON THE FLOOR!”

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Bug stayed quiet, trailing her fingers over the dusty windows like she could read the past through smudges. She sat cross-legged in the very back with her head tucked under her arms.

  “Can we even drive this thing?” asked Mason.

  “No,” said Daisy, appearing out of nowhere with a VHS tape and a crowbar. “But we can live in it.”

  And so they did.

  By late afternoon, they'd hauled in pillows from Marlene’s porch, a mattress Daisy insisted was only slightly cursed, and a milk crate full of walkies, batteries, and candy bars. Hannah tied a dreamcatcher to the rearview mirror. Mason stuck a wire antenna out the roof.

  “This is our base now,” declared Peppa, from the driver’s seat, where she was turning the wheel back and forth like she was in a movie. “We eat here, sleep here, plan world domination here.”

  “I call it,” said Alex. “This is our—what’s the word?—epicenter of operations.”

  “I call fridge corner,” said Twig, sitting in a drawer.

  Bug whispered something that no one heard.

  Peppa looked at her through the rearview mirror. “What’d you say?”

  Bug shrugged. “Just... this is nice.”

  Peppa looked away fast. Her face went serious.

  "Don't get used to it," she muttered. "Nothing nice lasts here."

  Outside, the sun boiled lower, painting the van in gold and sweat. Stinkwurst the dog barked at a rock.

  Inside, the kids laid out maps. Broken flashlights. Alien books. A walkie that wouldn’t shut up with static. A single broken sword stick.

  The crew was coming together.

  They had no money. No adult supervision. No clue what they were doing.

  But they had a van.

  And for now—that was enough.