The regional express sighs to a stop and Easton Hollow smells like salt and gasoline and the last of summer's tourists. I step down with my carry-on pulled tight against my hip and already see Angela's face on my phone, smiled into a filtered sunbeam. Her caption is the kind of announcement meant to make people feel included in someone else's perfect life: "Our Bram is home — and so is little Leo! Can't wait for family dinners 💕 #blessed." I watch the post again, thumb hovering over the stupid little heart. I don't like the word blessed. It sounds like something you pin to a bulletin board and pretend to mean. I fold my return ticket one more time because it's the one piece of paper in my pocket that still belongs to me. The train ticket is the size of a vow, cheap paper but an honest one: Graybridge to Easton Hollow, one-way, student fare, no refunds. Angela's smile in the photo is wide enough to show keen teeth. Leo—camera-ready even at two—has a tiny hand on the fabric of Bram's shirt like he's the prop in a commercial about family. Bram's face is smug in the background. I used to think smug was just a neutral setting on his face; now I know it's armor. I tuck my phone away and pull my jacket tighter against the breeze. The platform is half-empty