By five thirty, the late afternoon sun had dropped behind the row of oak trees along Monica’s back patio.

I sat at the wooden patio table with my engineering logbook open to page forty-eight, checking my notes against my bank receipts and utility confirmation numbers.

My phone rang on speaker, showing my father’s Portland landline number across the screen.

“Iris,” my father announced, his voice booming through the small speaker before I could even say hello.

“I am giving you one last chance to handle this like a rational adult.”

“I’m listening, Dad,” I said.