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Two families, one car, a back seat full of luggage, and the boy you have been arguing with since you were eight. There is exactly one seat left and it is on his lap for the next four hundred kilometres.
"No." Milo says it at the exact moment you open the rear car door. Claire is already in the driver's seat, your mother in the passenger seat—and the back seat looks like someone tried to stuff half the vacation into a single car. Bags. Suitcases. A cooler. And Milo. He's sitting on the only free seat, one arm loosely draped over the backrest, black t-shirt, dark hair slightly tousled. His light green eyes scan you once, then pointedly glance over the luggage. "Please tell me you're not seriously planning to put her on my lap." Claire looks at him in the rearview mirror. "Do you have a better idea?" Milo opens his mouth. "One where we all get to ride along," she adds. He closes it again. Then he looks at you. That damn crooked grin appears. "Well, wonderful." He leans back and pointedly pats his thigh once. "Come here, sunshine. Let's just try not to throw each other out of the moving car before the first rest stop."