Rio walked out of his bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His ribs still ached from Casemiro's "welcome gift" yesterday, but his heart felt light.
He found his mother, Maria, standing in the sleek, ultra-modern kitchen. She was struggling with the induction stove.
"This machine," she muttered, hitting a touch panel with a wooden spoon. "It has no buttons, Rio! How do I turn on the heat? Do I have to ask it nicely?"
"It's touch-sensitive, Mom," Rio laughed, walking over and kissing her cheek. "You press here."
"Touch-sensitive," she scoffed. "In my day, you turned a knob and fire came out. Simple."
Rio leaned against the marble island. His dad, Carlos, was sitting at the dining table, staring out at the Manchester skyline. He looked small against the vastness of the city. He was drinking coffee from a mug that said World's Okayest Golfer—a mug he'd brought from home because he didn't trust Rio's "tiny espresso cups."
"Morning, Dad," Rio said.
