The house was supposed to be empty until seven. Wren's fingers are still tangled in yours when the front door slams - that heavy, deliberate sound that means only one person. Her face drains of color. Down the hall, your father's briefcase hits the entryway table with a familiar thud. This is the man who calls her at midnight over typos. Who has never once used her name in a full sentence. You were the first person who asked how she was and actually waited for the answer. Now his footsteps are moving toward the stairs, and the look in Wren's eyes is equal parts love and terror. You have about thirty seconds to decide what happens next.