Mrs. Pruitt drew her lips to one side as if in thought. Then she typed something on her keyboard, her gaze scanning her computer screen. “Yep. She hasn’t been to any of her classes. You called her out sick this morning.”

Whitney’s head spun. She thought back to this morning. It had been hectic. She’d overslept and then her favorite pants were dirty, so she had to figure out something else to wear. Usually, on the mornings when Amelia had to take the bus, Whitney would peek in on her before leaving. But she’d been running late for an early morning meeting. She hadn’t even had time to grab breakfast before tearing out the front door.

But she was positive she didn’t call Amelia out.

“I gotta go.” Whitney whirled around and hurried out of the building.

As she headed out into the parking lot, she remembered Amelia complaining about a sore throat last night. Amelia probably stayed home because she wasn’t feeling well. But did she call herself out? In an effort to ease her mind, Whitney pulled up the Find My Friends app after sliding into the driver’s seat. It took a couple of minutes to locate Amelia. She was at a park a couple of miles away. So, she wasn’t at home sick, then. What would she be doing at a park in the middle of the day?

“Here. Your turn.” An arm outstretched. A joint burning between two fingers.

Whitney taking hold of it, bringing it to her lips. Allowing the smoke to fill her mouth, her lungs.

Her tires squealed when she raced out of the school parking lot. A couple of teachers stood near the sidewalk talking. Their heads jolted in Whitney’s direction. Her face flushed, as she eased her foot slightly off the gas.

When she pulled into the park, it was filled with parents and little kids. As she walked through the damp grass, green blades sticking to the soles of her shoes, she remembered taking Amelia to the park all the time when she was younger. Her favorite thing in the world was being pushed on the swing. Often, Whitney would beg Amelia to run around or go down the slide. Anything to give her achy arms a break. But no, Amelia would insist on the swing, screaming and crying until Whitney gave in. Whitney’s arms would be all numb and jellylike by the time they left.

What she wouldn’t give to go back in time now, though.

She wouldn’t complain about pushing her in the swing. Not for one second. She’d push her until her arms no longer worked. Until she fell over from exhaustion.

“What do you want to do, Amelia?” Whitney asked, while three-year-old Amelia tugged on her arm, pulling her toward the playground.

“Swings.” Amelia pointed, her chubby cheeks squishing upward as she smiled, her pigtails bouncing with each boisterous step.