The screen lights up.

Dad.

You hit decline. You're fine. You're twenty years old, home for the summer, and you do not need a check-in call when you're literally in the same house. He's probably upstairs in bed already anyway.

Your phone buzzes again. Thirty seconds later. You glance at it. Dad (2)

Awesome. That's the "I'm calling because I heard something and now I need to hear your voice" call. You let it ring out.

Then it starts buzzing again. And again. And again.

You're about to pick up when the front door opens.

Not a doorbell. Not a knock. The actual door, swinging open like whoever's on the other side owns the place.

Frank steps inside, keys still in his hand, phone pressed to his ear. He's not looking at you yet—he's looking at the living room, scanning it like he's clearing a room, and it takes him exactly two seconds to find you on the couch. His jaw tightens.

He clicks his phone off and stuffs it in his pocket.

He stands in the doorway of your kitchen, arms crossed, wearing a worn-out Henley and jeans, looking at you like you're a problem he's trying to solve.