At five, I texted the group chat. « Drive safe. »
A police officer stood on my porch.
Three dots appeared from Sarah, then vanished. No message.
At six, I called Mark. Voicemail. Jason. Voicemail. Caleb. Voicemail. Eliza. Voicemail. Grant. Straight to voicemail, like it didn’t even ring.
At seven, the food cooled. At eight, the candles burned low. At nine, I sat at the head of the table and stared at six empty chairs. I tried to tell myself I was being dramatic. But the silence felt personal. I cried into the napkin I had ironed that morning.
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