I’d assumed that when I was swept off to the orphanage, I had missed any letters he’d promised. It should have crossed my mind that he’d moved on. Making new friends would be easier in an area filled with Dutch. More than that, maybe we weren’t as close as I’d wanted to believe.

He glanced past me. “Where’d you… How’d you get…” He seemed to be reconciling me with his surroundings.

“I caught a bus. From Grand Rapids.”

If this was another dark turn of fate, I could survive it. I’d learned that much. But to keep from dissolving into a sniveling mess, I needed to know his stance outright. “I can’t go back to the orphanage there—I won’t. So if you don’t want me here, I’ll just…”

What? What would I do?

Everything over the past twenty-four hours had happened so quickly, I hadn’t contemplated an alternative beyond our reunion. I now realized, heart plummeting, that I should have.

But then, as if stirred from shock or a sleepy haze—maybe both—Arie brightened with the trademark dimple of his smile. He opened the screen door, and only briefly hedging, he welcomed me with a hug. “Thought you’d just up and moved away,” he said in that rasp I had so missed.

I considered his words, the relief in them. He had written to me after all.

He let go then, too soon, and stepped back with a creased brow. “Wait. If you’d been at an orphanage, does that mean…that your pa…”

“He died.” It was the first time I’d said it aloud.

“Ah, geez…Fen.” Arie shook his head and tenderly clasped my hand. The depth of sympathy in his eyes brought a mist of tears to mine. “I’m so sorry.”

Though rendered wordless, at least I didn’t crumble. For that much, I was proud.

Then a familiar accented voice shot from the house. “Who is there?”

From Arie’s expression, it was evident that all the worries that had drained out of me had siphoned into him.

Before he could answer, his mother appeared, drying her hands on a dishcloth. As always, her wheat-colored hair was tightly knotted, further pronouncing her strong cheekbones. Even in her housedress and apron, if compared to her husband—with his tall yet soft, rounded stature—she could almost pass as more suited for work in the mine.

“Mama,” he said, “you remember Fenna.”

While her gray-blue eyes were a match to Arie’s, his hadn’t narrowed at the sight of me.

I offered a tentative wave. “Hello, Mrs. Jansen.”

“Why you come now? Is time for school.”

The Dutch were ruled by schedules, Papa had taught me, referencing himself as an exception. As was I, evidently.

“Yes, ma’am. Well. The thing is…”

Arie interjected. “How about I fill her in?”