Ethan
We're late because neither of us will let the other one drive.
It starts in the parking lot, both of us standing by my car since it's the only one available, both of us insisting we should be the one behind the wheel like this is somehow a competition too. By the time we finish arguing about it, we've burned ten minutes we didn't have, and I end up driving anyway, mostly because Noah gets distracted checking his phone long enough for me to just get in and start the engine before he can stop me.
We walk into the counseling office eight minutes past our scheduled time, and the woman behind the desk in room 214 doesn't even look surprised.
"Ethan and Noah, I assume," she says, gesturing at two chairs angled toward each other in a way that already feels like a setup designed to make
