Montana 

The next morning, while eating breakfast, my phone vibrates, signaling a FaceTime call. “Excuse me. I need to take this.” I scoot my chair from the breakfast table and Carson’s parents.

“It’s my brother,” I whisper to Carson as I pass by.

“Hello,” I greet nervously, aware of the lecture coming my way.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” Joe asks.

“We’re eating breakfast. It’s eight o’clock here,” I answer. “What time is ...