Religion ran deep in the Matthews family on Zion’s side. Come rain or shine, his parents rounded up all the kids for church every Sunday. They didn’t join the crowds heading to the big Catholic parish in Rose Hills that most of the city attended. Instead, they drove to Orange Grove - simply called “The Grove” - for services at the modest Presbyterian church. Zion was running on fumes that morning. He and Madison had finally parted around 3 a.m., and he’d slipped back home just in time to catch a shallow, restless handful of hours before the house began to stir. It wasn’t nearly enough. His body felt glued to the mattress, every limb protesting as he tried to force himself upright. The bedroom door swung open without warning. Zion squinted up to see his older brother Jamal step inside and quietly push the door shut behind him.

“Why you ain’t knock?” Zion muttered, voice thick with sleep and irritation. Jamal crossed the room in two strides and dropped his voice to a fierce whisper. “Where the hell was you last night?”

Zion’s eyes snapped wide. “You lucky I covered fo’ yo ass,” Jamal continued, already turning back toward the door. “Now get yo ass up and get ready. We leavin’ fo’ church soon.” Zion let out a low groan as the door clicked shut. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feet hitting the floor like they weighed twice as much.

As the eighth of eleven kids, he was used to the constant noise and motion of a packed house.

Sometimes he envied M.J. for how easily he could disappear into the background of his own family. But in the Matthews home, no one, especially not Zion, ever truly faded out. His parents had eyes and expectations for every single child. While he dragged himself through getting dressed, Zion’s thoughts kept circling back to Madison. Was she as exhausted as he was right now? School would start back soon, stealing their late nights but giving them long daylight hours instead. The trade-off felt worth it. For now, though, he’d take whatever stolen moments they could carve out.