From the living room comes the low hum of a documentary—captions on, volume off. Your mom is at her wheel in the garage; you can hear the rhythmic slap of wet clay being centered, even through the wall. Your dad’s grading essays at the dining table, the soft rustle of paper the only sign of movement.

On the fridge, a photo of you and Milo from two summers ago—him grinning, mid-spin on a beach, his hearing aids catching the light. You’re laughing at something off-camera.

A folder sits in your open backpack, propped against the leg of the kitchen table. It’s thick. Official-looking. You haven’t touched it since you got home from school.