Mason and I had been friends since seventh grade. We’d survived middle school together, worked summer jobs, hung out at each other’s houses, built a friendship that felt more solid than anything in my own family. His parents were good people. His dad was a retired electrician. His mom worked at the library. Their house smelled like clean laundry and dinner. It felt safe.
Mason replied immediately.
“What do you need?”
I typed out a plan, hands shaking slightly.
“If I text you the word FINE in all caps, that means I’m not fine. If I don’t respond for more than three hours during the day, call me twice. If I still don’t answer, call your dad and start looking.”
He replied: “Got it. Share your location.”
I turned on location sharing. He confirmed he could see me. Then he sent his dad’s number. I saved it.
That ended up being the smartest thing I’d ever done.
Two days later, Saturday afternoon, Dad knocked on my bedroom door.
His voice was different.
Softer. Almost friendly. The tone I hadn’t heard from him in years.
“Hey,” he said. “Can we talk? Just us. Man to man. I think we got off on the wrong foot the other night. I want to fix things.”
Every instinct I had screamed trap.
But there was still a stupid part of me that wanted to believe my father could be reasonable. That he might apologize. That maybe we could work something out where I went to Ohio without burning every bridge.
I never imagined he’d go that far.
So I opened the door.
He suggested we go for a drive. Said he thought better when he was moving. Said he wanted to explain without Mom and Jennifer around to get emotional.
Just two guys having a conversation.
I grabbed my phone. Checked the battery.
Twelve percent.
Should be fine for a short drive, I told myself.
I grabbed my jacket even though it was July, because the weather had been weird all week and I’d learned not to trust the sky.
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