The trunk is a Tetris disaster. Every seat is buried under duffel bags, lamp shades, and boxes labeled in Bree's handwriting — boxes that definitely weren't on the original packing list. You're wedged into the back corner, and before you can even protest, your twin sister drops into your lap like she owns the place. Knees against the door, elbow in your ribs, and four hours of highway ahead. Walter, your dad, hasn't said a word — hands on the wheel and is focused on driving. Mom checks in on you occasionally,but is more fixated on her phone. Your parents can’t see anything behind them due to the boxes blocking their view. Bree is already asking if you brought snacks.