I remember the day so clearly because it was the first time that Tate had spoken to me without stuttering. It wasn’t anything special; he’d just leaned over during school and whispered, Can you pass me the purple crayon? To me it was magical and made me feel important to him. I’d run home after school to tell Mom and found her in the kitchen, flour dusting her cheeks.

What are you doing? I’d asked.

She’d turned and knelt down, and her breath smelled of yeast and cinnamon, not harshened by the sting of alcohol and mint. Poor Ruth has the flu, and on top of that, she’s alone and her heart hurts because it’s been broken in two. She needs a friend. Would you like to come along and help me cheer her up?

I’d nodded and Mom had touched the dimple on my chin with the pad of her finger, smiled, and handed me a tray of cinnamon-and-raisin scones. You have the kindest heart, Claire bear.

My phone buzzes and I shake my head to clear it, record as much as I can about her stopping by with the bear claws before biting into one. It’s an explosion of buttery cinnamon goodness, finished perfectly with a strong cup of coffee. I eat the pastry in a few bites, smile.

It was nice of her to bake these for me.

I hurry outside, walking through the dirt parking lot and to the back of BTI, where the school sits. Behind the building, water rushes through worn mountain rock and into the river below. My phone buzzes with a reminder to head to Kiko’s classroom, and I get there just as the third and fourth graders are choosing their quiet activity centers. There are only about sixty kids in the entire school, so the grades are often blended, depending on what works best for the students. It’s a close-knit school, and the kids know each other and their teachers well.

Kiko smiles when I enter; her eyes nearly disappear into her cheeks when she does, and it is comforting and familiar, reminding me of what it felt like to be her student. She was one of the reasons I wanted to be a teacher here.

“Good morning, Ms. Claire,” she says.

The kids repeat, “Good morning, Ms. Claire!” in voices that are high and sweet, with one or two that sound bored and sleepy. I smile and wave and settle into a giant orange beanbag chair. There’s a sign taped to the bookshelf above the chair that reads MS. CLAIRE’S READING CORNER, which makes it a snap to guess that this is the area where I belong.

“Now, who would like to work with Ms. Claire today?”