I think of my room back home—lavender sheets and white shabby-chic writing desk—girly but not overboard. The first day I arrived, Paula had decorated it with cut flowers from her garden. Today, Paula and Dave’s home is my home too—and, Bella would agree, our favourite place in the world. I can totally be myself with Paula and Dave, animal-crazy and everything.

I look around my father’s house and wonder if he will ask me why I don’t eat animal products? If he does, I’ll tell him my story like I did Paula. No lies. Simple as that.

My father stares into his coffee cup, stirring in the sugar rhythmically. Looks like it’s up to me to continue the conversation.

‘I love how Jane Goodall cares about all animals, not just wildlife. Have you seen her film? I haven’t yet, but I really want to. I borrowed one of her books from the library last year, though. It was so awesome …’ I leave this as an opening for him to ask me more.

He continues to stir his coffee.

‘How come you know about caribou and all that stuff?’ I ask, trying not to feel awkward about the silence. ‘You fish salmon, right? Is that your main job or are you a biologist too?’

‘You really love animals.’ He pauses. ‘Jane Goodall. Huh.’ Now he’s speaking more to himself than me. ‘I wonder how you would feel about …’ He stops and looks at me for a long moment before putting down his teaspoon.

‘What?’ I ask.

‘Nothing.’ He takes a big gulp of his coffee. ‘I just never did well at science, that’s all. Wish I could have been more like Dr Goodall. Maybe you’ll be a researcher one day. It’s a great profession. But my horrible high school teacher ruined it for me. Don’t you hate it when that happens? Who’s your worst teacher?’

I can’t help feeling like there was something more he was going to say as I describe one of my dullest teachers—the history teacher who no one in my Year Ten class could bear. Then I ask, ‘So, what do you do?’

‘First,’ my father gets up, ‘let’s decide on dinner. You must be famished, that flight is skimpy on the food, I know. I have to confess, I’m not the best cook, never even turned on this oven. How do Chinese noodles sound?’ Is he avoiding my question? He picks up a box of takeaway menus. ‘This place has the best—’

The doorbell rings.

‘I wonder who that could be,’ he says, putting the menus to the side and striding to the front door.

I can glimpse the entrance from where I’m sitting on the couch. My father opens the door to a tall young guy.