That stings. “I’m afraid of the bees,” I remind her.

“And sometimes I’m afraid you’re going to kill yourself on this raggedy, rickety ramp!” she all but shouts.

“You’re not the only one, Alejandra.”

We both whip around. My dad is standing about a dozen feet away. His ball cap is pulled low over his eyes, arms folded so tight his muscles pop out under his tattoos.

“I think it’s time for you to head home,” he tells her quietly. Ale runs down the path between our places without even saying goodbye.

When she’s gone, Dad stares hard at my scrapes and grass-caked pads. I’m about to come up with a good excuse, when suddenly he flat-out explodes.

“What have I told you? How many times?”

There’s actual rage in his voice, which shocks me. I try to calm him down, to laugh it off like usual, but he’s good and ticked.

“I’m not sure”—his voice drops to a growl—“when you got it into your head that rules don’t apply to you. That needs to change. You need to remember we’re supposed to be a team. Now. Get inside.”

I start to protest, but he spins around and stalks off to unlock the shop. Seeing him turn that key—locking me out again—floods me with sudden rage. I’m the one not being a team player here?

I shove my handrims hard and go after him, ready for a fight.

“When did you get so scared?” I shout.

He flinches, hand frozen on the doorknob.

“Oh, I don’t know, Emelyn,” he says in an awful, choked voice. “Maybe about two years ago when a car spun off the road, and suddenly everything was on me.”

My breath stops. “Dad—” I start, thinking maybe I’ve gone too far.

His hand grips the knob so hard veins pop out. “I … I don’t…” He shakes his head like it’s filled with sand. “I can’t do it all. Not like she could.”

I suddenly think of all the things Mom always handled. My appointments. School clothes, permission slips, birthday parties. IEP meetings and basically fighting all my battles for me.

“You do good,” I say quickly, because he does. I know how hard he works to take care of us, to keep things running. To keep our whole little testudo from falling apart.

Dad barely hears me. “It’s not enough.” He whispers it under his breath like he’s telling himself a story. “It’s never going to be enough.”

My fingers tighten on my rims. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The ice in my voice finally gets Dad’s attention. “Your mom wanted so many things, Emmie. For you—for us. She could always see the way to them so much clearer than me. I could work toward anything if she laid the groundwork, could tell me which way to pull. But now…”

I start to tell him it’s okay, that we’ll keep working together, no problem. Then he whispers something I know I’m not supposed to hear.