“You gonna make me pull it out of you?” My father’s voice is low and measured, slower in person than on the phone. It releases that part of me that I’m always holding tight at school, even if what he’s saying makes me shift uncomfortably in my chair.

“You bribin’ me with hashbrowns so you don’t have to?”

“Yep.”

“That ain’t right.”

“Life ain’t fair.” His tone sharpens. “You gonna make me ask again?”

I swallow, hard. “No, sir.”

He sniffs, nodding a thank-you to Sheryl when she drops off our drinks. My lower lip trembles. My chest tightens. I don’t want to lie again. I can’t. But I can’t put him at risk by telling the truth. The hands of the Order—and my mistakes—are still clenched tight around my neck, squeezing when they want to, suffocating me. The tears I’d held back since I’d heard his voice on the phone fill my eyes now, and I look down at my orange juice to hide them.

“Bree,” he says softly. He reaches a weathered hand out to me across the table. I shake my head, refusing to look at him. “Look at me, kiddo. You can come home if you want. I’ll move you out today, but it better not be because that dean got you scared.”

I stare at him, gobsmacked, while Sheryl deposits our food. “What?”

“Alice says you been going hard with school, not acting like yourself. I didn’t send you here so you could run yourself into the ground. I heard the better-than-you in that man’s voice. Just don’t want you doing all this because of him.” By the time he finishes, Dad is smearing butter into his waffle’s squares in angry, hard strokes.

My father has never gone to college himself. He’d never gotten the chance to, not really. But now I wondered if he wished he had, or if he’d tried—and met his own Dean McKinnon.

“That’s not it,” I mutter. “I can handle classes, and the last time I heard from the dean was the day he called you.”

“Well, what’s got you down, then? Was it therapy? Cuz we can find you someone new.” He cuts a bite of waffle and sticks it together with a piece of city ham. Before he puts it in his mouth, he gestures at my plate with his fork. “Eat your food ’fore it gets cold.”

I pick up the Texas Pete and sprinkle it on my hashbrowns while I think. Then, a question comes. “Did Mom ever talk to you about Grandma?”