His phone, when charged at his neighbors place later that week, had one new message.
Mom: Coming to dinner Sunday. Don't wear that dumb jacket. 6 p.m. Don't be late.
Dean still wore the jacket.
The dinner was silent except for forks scraping plates. His father didn't look at him. His younger brother talked about some job in marketing. Dean nodded like he cared. His mother asked if he was still "doing nothing."
He said yeah. Still doing nothing.
She sighed. Long, theatrical. Like he'd ruined her life just by being born.
No one asked him how he was.
No one ever did.