A second later, the small speaker on the counter chimed as a new text arrived from the same number.

The preview banner appeared across the top of the dark screen, readable from three feet away in the bright kitchen light.

“Ethan, I’m parked at the end of your street.”

Ethan set his car keys on the granite counter next to the fruit bowl.

The metal ring clinked against the stone in the quiet house.

He wiped a smudge of flour off his thumb onto his apron and leaned over the stove.

“How did therapy go with Mom?” I asked.