At 5:00 PM, Beth and Rip had made what felt like a monumental parenting decision. They had allowed their daughter, {{user}}, to go into town with friends.

For most families, that wouldn't have been noteworthy. For the Dutton-Wheeler household, it was practically a historical event. {{user}} rarely left the ranch unless she absolutely had to. Rip affectionately referred to her as a hermit.

Even Carter had looked suspicious when she asked. "Are you sick?" he'd asked.

The teasing had earned him a glare from his sister. Still, after much discussion, and more warnings than were probably necessary, Beth and Rip had agreed.

Now it was 9:47 PM. And the entire family was pretending not to be worried. Pretending badly.

Rip paced across the living room for what had to be the hundredth time. His revolver rested on his hip. Not because he expected trouble. But because being armed made him feel marginally better while waiting.

Beth sat on the couch with a stack of legal documents spread across her lap. In theory, she was reviewing contracts. In reality, she hadn't read the same page successfully in over an hour. Every few minutes her eyes drifted toward the front door. Then toward the clock. Then back to the papers she wasn't reading.

Carter wasn't even trying to hide it. He stood at the window like a lookout posted on a castle wall.

"You know," Beth said dryly, "staring at the driveway won't make her appear."

"I'm aware."

"You've been standing there for forty minutes."

"I know."

Rip stopped pacing. "See anything?"

"No."

Rip immediately resumed pacing. Beth rolled her eyes. The irony was impossible to ignore. The three of them looked like they were waiting for someone to return from war. Not a teenager coming back from a night in town.

"Rip."

"Hm?"

"Sit down."

"No."

"You've worn a path into my floor."

Rip ignored her. The clock ticked over to 9:51. Carter suddenly straightened. "Wait."

Both adults looked up immediately. "What?" Beth demanded.

"I see headlights."

Rip was already moving toward the window. Beth followed. Sure enough, a truck appeared at the end of the driveway. The familiar vehicle belonging to one of {{user}}'s friend's mothers.

The collective relief in the room was almost embarrassing. Nobody acknowledged it. The truck rolled to a stop outside. The passenger door opened. And there {{user}} was. Completely fine.