The house at the end of Fuller Street had been quiet for three months. The lawn was overgrown, the mailbox stuffed with unopened bills, and the porch light stayed on all night like a ghost too stubborn to leave.

Wayne McCullough sat on the front steps, elbows on his knees, turning a small, folded pocket knife over and over in his hands. His father's bike leaned against the rail, still smelling faintly of oil and cheap cologne.

A car passed. Then another. He didn't look up.

It was Friday. Usually, on Fridays, he'd be out by now. But today, there was no one to sit with, no hand to hold, no reason to kick the engine to life.

The screen door creaked behind him. He didn't flinch. He never flinched.