I clicked on the booking screen for the flight tomorrow morning.

I selected two seats in economy.

I didn’t book them yet, but I kept the screen open, waiting.

I knew the call from my children was coming.

I looked out at the empty land, the concrete slab glowing faintly in the twilight.

My phone screen lit up again.

It was Dylan’s contact photo, a picture of him squinting in the Texas sun.

I swiped the screen and put the phone to my ear.

“Dylan?” I said.

The line was quiet for a second, filled only with the faint hiss of wind and distant ocean waves.

“Mom,” he whispered.

His voice sounded small, much younger than seventeen.

“Are you okay?” I asked, gripping the steering wheel.

“No,” he said. “Everything is messed up here.”

I heard a door click shut on his end.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“I’m in the bathroom,” he said. “Chloe is here too. She’s crying.”

“Put her on, or just tell me what’s happening, Dylan.”

“Dad is going crazy,” he said.

My heart did a slow, heavy roll in my chest.