“How did you know Michael was outside my house that night, and why did you have a hammer?”

It’s a question I should have asked right away, but Jamie grins like he was expecting it and says, “I keep an eye out.”

I flash back to the night we met, his dad’s face half hidden by a curtain, and wonder if the whole family are snoops.

But like he can read my mind, Jamie says, “When I saw him walk past, I grabbed the hammer from under the sink, just in case. I didn’t want him to hurt you. I see your dad drive past sometimes, leaving for work, so I keep watch. I’m sorry if that’s weird.”

It is a little. But it’s also cute, and I’m getting used to the idea of having a hero.

“Okay,” I say, leaving before the blush reaches my cheeks.

I walk the final few steps slowly, imagining life after Mayfield, and as I lift my key, the front door opens, and Nan is there, smiling.

I’m not expecting her. This isn’t one of her days. But I am so glad she’s here.

I drop my suitcase and fall into her arms and cry, and she doesn’t ask what’s wrong. She just holds me the way only some people can: the way family should.

She hugs me long after I’ve finished sobbing, stroking my hair and whispering shushing noises into my ear.

When I step back, she says, “We’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” I say.

I hear the floorboards creak, then Dad is at the bottom of the stairs. He has had a haircut, and when he holds his arms out, I let them close around me.

I expect to cry even harder, but instead, I feel warm and safe and glad to be home.

Dad’s hugs come with small print. No matter how good they feel, they remind me of what we’ve lost. But they’re worth it.

Then I tell them about Mayfield Lodge, and Dad doesn’t take his eyes off me the whole time. Whenever I look back, he holds his smiles longer than usual.

I wonder if something happened while I was away. If Nan told him he had to try harder. If, like me, he had a realization this week—that life is too short to waste, no matter the cards you are dealt.

When I tell them about Bernie, Nan says, “We know, dear. The school phoned.”

I don’t say I might have been responsible. I’m trying to drown out that thought.

“You used to play together all the time,” Dad says, and then he drifts off, and I wonder what moment he’s revisiting.

I think about telling him what Bernie said on our spirit walk, how she had always liked him. But for some reason, I think it will make him sad.