“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for a teacher.”

Caleb bit back a snort of amusement, and it took everything Hank had not to kick his brother.

“You don’t say,” the woman replied in a dry voice. “Are you here to enroll someone for the fall? Or for the summer session?”

His thoughts raced. What was the teacher’s name? All he knew was that she had great hair—Becca always commented on it—and she was about Becca’s age. “Uh, maybe? I want to talk to the teacher first.”

“What grade?” The woman tried to hide her impatience behind a smile.

“My daughter’s four.”

“Pre-K?” She nodded and pulled out a folder, then held a stack of papers out to Hank. “You’ll want to enroll her soon. Classes start in a week. Here’s the paperwork—we’ll need that back quickly—and supplies and the list of things your daughter needs before she can join the class.”

“I want to talk to the teacher first,” he repeated. If it wasn’t that particular teacher, maybe she’d know which one had good hair and was Becca’s age. It wasn’t a big school, so there couldn’t be that many teachers. The building was small and cozy, the brick outside faded with age.

The woman stood up and pointed down the hall. “Miss Mckinney is probably still in her classroom, though she might be heading out for lunch soon. If she’s here, she’ll be in room 202. If not, you’ll have to come back some other time or email her to arrange a meeting.”

He nodded, grabbed a smirking Caleb by the arm, and dragged him down the hall, looking for room 202.

They found the door, and to Hank’s relief, a nice-seeming young woman sat behind a desk covered in colorful cutouts. Pictures of apples and big block letters decorated the wall, along with posters of kittens and puppies and other happy things. She stood up as they entered the room, a welcoming smile on her face. Her clothing was modest, with a long, tan pencil skirt and a pale blouse. He tried to figure out if she had nice hair, but it was pulled back in a long ponytail and didn’t seem nearly as nice as Becca’s tumbling waves . . . but maybe he was biased.

“Hi there. I’m Miss Mckinney. Are you parents . . .” She looked at them with a question in her eyes, waiting.

He took off his hat, feeling awkward. “I’m Hank and—”

“Oh, Hank!” She clasped her hands together, delighted. “Libby’s father? Becca’s told me so much about you. You must be here to enroll her in pre-K for the summer! I’m so glad.”

“Unless you can teach her how to shoot a gun or skin a fox, I don’t think Libby needs additional learning, but thank you,” Hank said, feeling curiously protective of his daughter. Why did everyone assume Libby needed school? Did they think he wasn’t a good father to her?