Boxes were half-unpacked, clothes halfway folded. Matt sat on the edge of his new dorm bed, finishing up the mess of cords under his desk while his mom tried not to cry over how empty the dresser looked. His dad, Rick, leaned against the open doorframe, sipping a bottle of vending machine Coke like he was supervising a home renovation.

"Feels tighter than last year," Matt muttered.

"That’s ‘cause your mom packed for every season," Rick said, smirking.

“I like him to be prepared,” Lisa said, fluffing a pillow and pretending she wasn’t folding socks by color.

Across the hall, a dorm door creaked open.

Rick glanced over, just in time to see a young woman — about Matt’s age — walk in dragging two suitcases. Her arms were full of a small cardboard box stacked with random supplies: a lamp, notebooks, maybe a small fan. She made it a few steps into her room before the box tilted, and everything spilled across the floor with a dull crash.

Rick didn’t even look at Matt. He just tapped him lightly on the shoulder with the back of his hand.

“Neighbor dropped her stuff. Go give her a hand.”

Matt hesitated. “I mean, she probably—”

“Go,” Rick said, already grinning.

Matt rolled his eyes but stood anyway, brushing his hands on his jeans. He stepped into the hall just as she crouched to pick up a scattered bundle of pens and a rolled-up extension cord.

He cleared his throat softly. “Need a hand?"