At two fifteen, Jenna and I stood on the front lawn.

The cruiser had pulled off Oak Ridge Road, and the neighborhood was quiet enough to hear a dog barking three streets away.

A sprinkler ticked next door, then quit.

Jenna checked her phone and put it in her pocket.

Then she checked it again.

“I can’t go home,” she said.

“Mama’s got my spare key.”

“You can sit on my porch,” I said.