THE LAST FIRST DAY OF HIGH SCHOOL of my life. A Wednesday, which was weird. I woke before dawn on the sofa, my leg numb where Terry Johnson’s head rested all night. I sent him to Francine’s room and climbed the steps to the attic room, warm with sunlight, and tried to remember every first day of every grade, every single one at a different school. I’d be at one school in the fall, then I’d leave that house the second semester, at a new school in January with new teachers, new classmates making the same stupid comments about my clothes, new teachers expressing the same concerns about my catching up, and a new house with a bunch of new kids.

I found The Wilderness World in the sheets, replaced my bookmark, and took a shower without waiting in line. Got dressed in clothes that were in the same place I’d left them, shoes still beside the door, no bunch of kids moving, taking, misplacing things. Quiet.

Downstairs I collected six pale blue eggs from the hens and found they were good listeners. “Ladies,” I said. “I hope you appreciate the luxurious lives you lead here in the yard. No school, no teachers treating you like you’re stupid for not instantly understanding how they teach geometry, plus your feathers always look great—especially yours, Karen.” Karen was a small, round hen, her black feathers shiny and dotted with tufts of white near her red feet. She was so put together, unique and fancy on the regular.

Terry Johnson and Francine waited for me in the sunny kitchen, the table set with a pot of tea, a glass dish of raspberry jam, and a plate of wheat toast.

“Don’t forget your lunch,” she said, and put a brown paper sack in my hands. “Call from the office if you need anything. You have enough pencils? Notebooks? Need an extra eraser?”

I unfolded the top of the paper sack; cheese sandwich, cut diagonally. Apple, sliced. Carrots, washed and chopped. Granola bar. An adorable lunch that indicated her foster experience had a median grade level of kindergarten.

“Oh, there’s a map in there, too, of the school buildings. I’ve marked where all your classes are.”

My head felt a little spinny. I stared down at the carrot sticks. Was there a box of raisins in there, too?

“Muiriel,” Francine said. “Would you rather have lunch money?”

“No!” I said. “Thank you.” I put the sack into my backpack and grabbed more toast to go. “I love granola bars.”

She stood on the porch and held Terry Johnson up to wave with his paw as I walked to the road. “Have a good day!”

I waved back and hurried to the cover of trees to rub my eyes, which were burning and tearing up out of the blue.