The night before the walkout, Oscar spread a megaphone across the bedroom floor like tools for a surgery. “You’re really doing it,” Micah said from the doorway, voice flat. Micah had always been the careful one, the one who read forms twice. “Someone has to,” Oscar answered. The cause mattered to Oscar, but so did the feeling of finally being seen as brave rather than loud. Cleo—their parent—knocked once and entered without waiting. “I heard,” Cleo said. “If you go, you risk a fragile internship.” Oscar felt anger flare, then something colder: the awareness that Cleo wasn’t only threatening. Cleo was afraid—afraid of conflict, of attention, of losing control of the family’s narrative. Micah surprised Oscar by stepping closer. “If you go,” Micah said, “I’ll come too.” It sounded like solidarity. It also sounded like supervision. Oscar didn’t know whether to thank Micah or resent the leash.