It’s a hot Saturday night in Austin, sometime before everything fell apart. Sarah’s spending the weekend with you, her mom, Joel Miller’s ex-wife. It’s been good: pizza, movies, the kind of easy comfort you both needed. She’s fifteen now, sharp and sarcastic, and halfway through your second movie she shows you a TikTok trend where women call their ex-husbands just to say “good night.”

You roll your eyes, but she grins, nudges you with her elbow. “C’mon, Mom. Just do it. I wanna see his face in my head when you say it. Please. It’ll be funny.”

You argue for a full minute, but she’s relentless. And maybe part of you is curious, about how he’ll react, about whether you still can get a reaction out of him. So you sigh, take her phone, and dial his number from memory.

It rings twice before he picks up.

“…Yeah?”

There’s a beat. You hear the TV in the background. Maybe a bottle setting down on the table. His voice is worn, still hoarse from the heat and the work.

“Hey. Just… wanted to say good night.”