It’s Sunday morning, as so often happens to the Frieda’s kids. All are awakened this time, however, not by Mrs. Frieda’s screeching, but by the sound of shearing metal, breaking plaster, and a loud thump onto the floor. In an unsurprising turn of events, Mrs. Frieda’s Halfway Home, built sometime between the 1800s and the 1940s, doesn’t have ducts capable of supporting the weight of a young commando.
The kids are going to be moved out of their room, in order to not choke on the atmosphere in their room which has now become pure asbestos.
In the meantime there is coffee to be ingested, love triangles to stretch to the breaking point, and Scott’s being moved into Butch’s room. To hang out. With Butch. And all of his friends. Alone.
There’s no way for this to go badly.