I expect the next question, and it’s right on time. “Met any Black kids yet?”

The only other Black kids in my high school had been a year older than me. A quiet boy named Eric Rollins and a girl named Stephanie Henderson. Whenever we spent time together, the white kids got nervous or, like, weirdly excited? All the other Black folks I know are relatives or from our church two towns over. Carolina’s got a larger Black population than Bentonville High does, that I know for sure. It’s one of the reasons I applied.

“Not yet. I haven’t even gone to my first class.”

“Well, you need a community. When’s your first class?”

“Ten a.m.”

“Had breakfast yet?”

“Not hungry.” I realize I haven’t eaten since before the Quarry.

Dad makes an mmph sound. I imagine his expression as he does it: mouth curled downward, bushy dark brows furrowed, all the lines in his deep brown face frowning at me all at once. “Appetite still comin’ and goin’?” I don’t reply, not ready to lie again just yet. He sighs. His voice is slow, careful, and his Richmond drawl drops away. “The book says that not feeling hungry, not eating, is a physical symptom of grief.”

I knew he’d bring up that book. I can see the title now: Letting Go: Bereavement, Love, and Loss. I squeeze my eyes shut and scramble around for my wall. “I eat. I’m just not hungry right now.”

“Kiddo, while you’re away, I need you to take care of yourself. Meals, rest, grades, make some new friends. If you shut down, you come home. That was the deal, right?” I make my own mmph sound, and his voice gets sharp around the edges. “Excuse me? I’m not sure I heard you. That was the deal. Correct?”

“Correct,” I murmur. That had been the deal. He knew I was miserable at home, and so he let me go, but he’d had reservations. “Dad, I appreciate you asking. I really do. I’m okay, though. Being here is…” Scary. Lonely. Messy. “Good for me.”

“Baby…” The tiniest tremor in my father’s voice makes my chest go tight. “You keep saying you’re okay, but this thing that’s happening to us… I feel it too. I know it feels real bad.”

“I’m good, Dad,” I grit out. I stare at the veranda beneath my feet, and my vision tunnels, goes sharp, then blurry.

“Okay,” he says with a sigh. “Well, try and get some food in your stomach before your class, okay, kiddo?”

“Will do.”

A pause. “Where do we begin?”

I clench my phone tight at my ear. It’s what we say when one of us is overwhelmed. “At the beginning.”

“That’s my smart girl. Talk to you later.”