“What will you work out?”

Baba and I both turn at the faint rattle of keys, the low click of the front door shutting behind Mama. She’s wearing the old coat she bought on sale in America, her hair pulled back into a tight bun that emphasizes the sharpness of her eyes and chin.

“It’s...nothing to worry about. I’ll explain over dinner,” I say as she heads into the kitchen for her usual after-work routine: washing her face and scrubbing her hands for twenty seconds. After a moment’s deliberation, I get up too.

When Mama reemerges, I’ve already laid the small paper box out on the couch, the white of the package almost blinding in contrast to the old mustard cushions. It’s a silly little gift, probably a basic necessity for other families—but since gifts are so rare in our house, I’d been wondering when to give it to Mama. In light of Baba’s news, now seems like as good a time as any.

“What’s this?” Mama asks, eyeing the box.

“I bought it for you. With my own money, of course,” I add hastily.

Mama opens the box very carefully, as if afraid she might break it with one wrong move, and a bottle of expensive hand cream falls out into her open palm. She doesn’t say anything, just stares at the pretty bottle, at the delicate flower print snaking up its side, the recognizable brand name printed on top.

“I... I know your hands are always super dry from work,” I explain, more because the silence makes me nervous than anything. Will she think it’s a waste of money? “And when we were at the store the other day, I just thought, I might as well... It’s apparently supposed to help heal scars too.” I wring my hands together. “But if you don’t like it, I could always return it—”

Mama throws her arms around me, pulling me close. “Sha haizi,” she whispers into my hair. Silly child.

And as I lean against her, breathing in her familiar scent, I think, Maybe I was right earlier.

Maybe everything really will be okay.

Three long phone calls and countless rounds of emails later (all of which are ominously titled: Re: Alice Incident), I’m standing back outside the Airington school gates, a light bag in my hands.

After some negotiating, the school and Peter’s parents and I came to an agreement: I’m to leave Airington this December, but I get to spend my last few days here, finishing up my coursework for the semester and saying goodbye to my friends and teachers.

“Name?”

The security guard stares at me through the iron bars, and I’m struck by a sudden, overwhelming sense of déjà vu.

“Alice Sun,” I tell him, and offer a small smile. It’s weird how much I’ll miss everything about this place, now that I know I’m leaving—even this guy who can never seem to remember my name.

And who’s now watching me suspiciously.

“Why are you smiling?”