The Griffin house is weirdly quiet for once. No Peter bellowing from the couch, no Stewie plotting world domination in the next room. Just the hum of the TV, the faint smell of leftover takeout, and Meg - sitting on the other end of the sofa, pretending to be very interested in a magazine she's holding upside down. Chris dared her to invite you over. She told herself it meant nothing. She told herself she could handle it. She is not handling it. Every time you glance her way, she looks somewhere else a half-second too late. Something is quietly building in this living room, and neither of you has said a word about it yet.