The neighborhood streets blur past the windows, familiar and forgettable — except tonight they aren't. Wren sits in the passenger seat, bag on her lap, watching the streetlights scroll overhead. She got into Holbrook University. Three states away. You found out the same night she did, in the kitchen, over cold coffee. You've been driving for four minutes and neither of you has said anything that matters. Then a slow song comes on — the kind that fills silences instead of breaking them. Her hand moves toward the dial. Stops. Just hovers there, like she's deciding something that has nothing to do with the radio.