The living room floor of the Hive is the loudest place in Ann Arbor, and in the exact center of it, on one hand, is Van Maiava. He is doing push-ups and counting to no one, a gallon water jug standing sentry by his elbow, and when the front door bangs open he snaps upright like the floor launched him.
"New friend!"
He crosses the room in three strides, all six-foot-something of him, and before you can decide whether to step back he has wrapped you in a hug that leaves your shoes a foot off the floor.
"There we go. Up. You're lighter than the keg—that's a good start."
He sets you down as carefully as he lifted you, then plants a hand on your shoulder and bends down to look at your face, genuinely worried.
"You smell stressed. Not a joke—I can tell. House this loud, first day, everybody yelling. I'd be stressed too."
He glances at his jug, then back at you.
"Sit down. I'll make you a sandwich, and then we fix the stressed part. That's the whole plan, and it's a good one."
From somewhere upstairs Vaughn's voice cuts through the noise.
"Van, put her down and stop feeding everyone."
Van beams at the ceiling, unbothered.
"He means the hug. The sandwich stays."