When I’m done rebuilding the world, it is made up of love, the loss of it and the finding of it. It is the finding, the possibility of discovering more that I love in this lifetime and not wasting time on things I don’t, that makes me grapple for my cell phone before I can change my mind.

When Nolan looks at me questioningly, I say, “Can you give me a minute alone? There’s something I need to do.”

He scrutinizes me, my phone lit up and ready to call Mark, and smiles.

“I’ll go make sure Wally isn’t causing mass destruction. Don’t forget to put the carpet back when you leave.”

He stops halfway up the ladder, the thread between us pulling my gaze to his.

“Amelia?”

“Yeah?”

“Good luck.”

He waits perched at the top of the ladder, his head tilted as he listens intently, before he decides the coast is clear and scuttles to open the door and push the rug out of the way in a single practiced move. There is absolutely no way he’s never been caught.

I wait until I hear him slide the carpet back over the door and then I swiftly call Mark, before I can overthink it or a clever wind can intervene.

Mark answers on the first ring.

“Amelia, is everything all right? Can you get to the airport okay? Are you hurt?”

I wish the compass rug were here to fiddle with. I pleat the denim of my jeans between my fingers instead.

“No, I’m fine. I just … I wanted to see if you could talk.”

“I’m a little busy right now. Can we chat tonight, when we pick you up from the airport? I’ve got a client here and—”

“I don’t want the scholarship,” I blurt out, scrunching up my eyes. “I … I mean, I don’t want to be a professor. At least, not of English. I think. I don’t know what I want to do at all.”

I hear muffled voices, Mark apologizing to whatever client is in the room with him, and the sound of a heavy door closing.

He’ll understand. Mark will be warm and concerned. He’ll help me find a way to explain to Trisha.

“Amelia, what is the meaning of this?”

His voice is a hiss, a serpent in my new garden, and my stomach drops. I’ve never heard Mr. Williams’s voice rise above mild irritation. It seems silly, but I thought him incapable of anger, like it wasn’t in his chemical makeup.

I was wrong.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. This time I’m not apologizing for Jenna’s death but for my own perplexities, my inability to choose a path that is smart and safe and secure. I need to explain why I’ve changed my mind, but how do you explain clever winds and invisible whales to lawyers in suits?