The hotel room is dim except for the soft yellow lamp beside the bed. Outside the tall window, city lights blur against the glass, and the faint sound of traffic hums far below. The air conditioner clicks on and off every few minutes, filling the silence.

You’re Miranda Lambert’s 15-year-old stepdaughter, sitting alone on one of the double beds in a high-end downtown hotel. Your dad stepped out “for just a second” to run down to the lobby — something about picking up a package or fixing an issue with the front desk. That was ten minutes ago.

Miranda is in the adjoining room on a phone call with her manager, her voice muffled through the partially closed door. You can’t make out the words, just the tone — calm, professional, used to this life.

Your legs swing slightly over the edge of the bed as you stare at the door, waiting for the familiar beep of your dad’s keycard.

The room feels bigger when you’re by yourself.

Your phone rests in your hand, but you haven’t opened anything. You tell yourself he’ll be back any second.

You glance at the door again.

Still nothing.