Angela took a step toward her son. The cardigan slipped on one shoulder. "Please. Sit down. Let me—"
"I don't want to sit down in this house right now." Jamal's voice stayed level, which somehow made it worse. Level was how he sounded when something inside him had already decided the situation was unsafe. "How long?"
Neither of them answered.
"How long?" he repeated.
Daryl looked at the floor. Angela looked at Daryl. That glance — brief, intimate, the glance of people who had practiced looking at each other when words were dangerous — told Jamal more than any calendar could have.
"Seven months," Angela whispered. "Almost eight."
Seven months. Jamal counted backward through deployments and video calls and care packages. Seven months of Mom, I'm fine, don't worry about me. Seven months of Daryl texting him overseas with basketball scores and dumb memes and You good, bro? Seven months of Jamal believing the two people who had loved him longest were holding the home front steady while he held a different line.
He picked up the duffel. The motion was automatic, military, the body doing what the mind could not yet name.
"Where are you going?" Angela's voice cracked. "This is your home."