“Go ahead, Ms. Wanamaker,” he tells Dawn. “I have to stop at the office, so Emmie and I can head that way together.”

“Bye, Emmie!” Dawn chirps, like we haven’t led her on another day-long scavenger hunt. Maybe she’s afraid of Dr. Grayling learning she’s no good at her job if she tells on me.

When she’s gone, Mr. Milling perches on the desk beside mine, spinning a pencil through his fingers. “How’re things going, Emmie?”

“Fine,” I answer quickly. “I like your class.”

“Glad to hear it.” Mr. Milling sticks the pencil into his thick, dreadlocked ponytail. “You like history, don’t you?”

“I do.” I’m not a huge reader, but Mr. Milling makes everything we learn super interesting.

“Speaking of history, that’s an impressive testudo you and your team pulled off.”

“Testudo?”

Mr. Milling whips the pencil from his hair, scribbles the word onto a sticky note, and hands it to me. I wonder if he’s about to call me out on shaking Dawn. But he hops up, straightens some things on his desk, and heads to the door of the portable, nodding at me to follow.

He doesn’t butt in as I go down the ramp—even when I have to slow down for a warped floorboard—and makes small talk as we cross the courtyard. But when we reach the front doors, he asks how Devontae and me are doing on our project.

“Getting it together,” I assure him. “Got a study session planned.”

“I’m not worried,” he replies.

My dad’s truck is waiting outside, and Mr. Milling pushes the door open for me in a smooth, polite way—like he’d do for ladies at church or a granddad juggling groceries. As I roll out, I turn back to tell him thanks, but he’s already headed up the hall.

Without stopping at the office.

Dad’s home three evenings in a row. He catches up on some projects around the house, and we hang out and catch up on each other. He does some minor maintenance on my wheels, and we have a bad-movie marathon with popcorn and hot chocolate. Every sensible part of my brain tells me this is the time to start the conversation about Dawn. But every time I start to, I chicken out. Having Dad around—so much like old times—feels too good to wreck.

We spend Thursday afternoon fishing down at Nelson’s pond.

“Been too long since we did this.” Dad slides a night crawler onto his hook and makes a perfect cast into the still, dark water.

“Yep.” I gulp a handful of chips and reel in my line to discover something’s swiped my bait. The gentle breeze and soft, late-day sun filtering through the branches above us make me feel too relaxed to focus on fishing, but I don’t even care. It’s been so nice to hang out together like this. All the stress of school and Dawn and Dr. Grayling and wondering if Dad’s pushing himself too hard at work melts away as we sit under the big, drooping live oak and listen to crickets chirping and our lines plunking in the water.