The driveway was narrower than I remembered. My rented black SUV seemed too sharp, too out of place beside my mother’s aging minivan. I turned off the engine and sat in silence. My palms were dry—military calm, they’d call it—but my stomach still churned like it used to before deployment. The porch light was on, casting a warm yellow glow over the chipped welcome mat. Nothing had changed, certainly not the feeling that waited for me inside: that particular blend of being unseen and hyper-analyzed all at once.