Reading

At 5:12 on Friday evening, Owen's overnight bag was waiting beside the front door. At 5:26, it was still there. At 5:41, it had begun to look less like a bag and more like a small, patient animal that had been told to stay.

Dad lived forty-five minutes away now. That was what everyone said: forty-five minutes. Not far, they said. Close enough, they said. But forty-five minutes could stretch. It could fill with traffic, forgotten keys, unfinished phone calls, and messages that said ON MY WAY even when the person who sent them had not yet found their shoes.

Owen sat on the third stair with one socked foot tucked under the other leg. His bag held three shirts, two pairs of jeans, a library book, a sketchpad, and the stuffed rabbit he had stopped admitting he slept with. The blue toothbrush Dad had bought last month was supposed to stay at his apartment. It had come home in Owen's pocket because there was nowhere to put it except the kitchen counter beside Dad's razor.

Mom crossed the hallway holding her phone. She had changed out of her work clothes but had not put on comfortable ones. That was how Owen knew she was still waiting too.

"He said five," Mom said.

Owen nodded.

"Did he text you?"

Owen checked, although he already knew. "Just the one from before."

Mom's mouth became a thin line. "Tell him you have been ready for almost an hour."

The words sat in the hall between them. Owen knew Mom could send those exact words herself. Mom knew it too. But since the divorce, messages sometimes crossed the distance inside Owen's pockets.

Outside, a car slowed. Owen stood so quickly the stair edge pressed a stripe into his foot. The car continued past.

"You don't have to guard the door," Mom said, softer now. "He'll come when he comes."

That did not sound as comforting as Mom meant it to sound. Owen looked at the window, the phone, and the stairs leading back to his room.