Twenty-four desks form perfect rows, each topped with a nameplate and a small basket of supplies.
“Ms. Peterson?” I call from the doorway.
She turns, shoulders squared, greeting ready. “You must be Quinn and Mr. Hollis.” Her lips flatten into a thin line as she registers Sprinkles. “And this is…?”
“Sprinkles,” Quinn mumbles to her toes. “He’s my service dog.”
“I see.” Ms. Peterson’s attention returns to me rather than Quinn, the assessment in her green eyes raising the hairs on my neck. “We don’t allow pets in the classroom.”
“Sprinkles isn’t a pet,” I say. “He’s a trained service animal. The previous dean approved his accommodation.” I remove a folder from my messenger bag. “I have the paperwork here.”
Ms. Peterson accepts the folder with two fingers, as if it might bite. “The previous dean is no longer with us.”
My throat tightens. “Dean Whitaker assured the Wright family just two days ago that all arrangements would be honored.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Of course. I’ll need to file these copies with the office.” She sets the folder on her desk without opening it. “Quinn, why don’t you find your desk? It has your name on it.”
Quinn doesn’t move, her fingers curling tighter around mine.
“I can show her,” I offer.
We move between the desks until we find her nameplate near the middle of the room. Quinn Wright is printed in block letters, with a small star sticker in the corner.
“Look.” I point to the star. “Ms. Peterson already knows you love stars.”
Quinn touches the sticker with one finger but remains standing.
“You can put your backpack in the cubby,” Ms. Peterson instructs from across the room, where she’s greeting another student.
I help Quinn remove her backpack, unzipping the front pocket. “Remember how we packed everything? Your lunch is here. Your pencil box goes inside your desk. Your folder stays in your backpack until you need it.”
She follows my directions, her movements stiff. Other children filter into the classroom, their energy filling the space with chatter. A few stop to stare at Sprinkles, who remains steady beside Quinn’s chair.
“Can he stay this close all day?” I ask Ms. Peterson when she approaches.
“As long as he’s not disruptive.” Her nose wrinkles. “We have a tight schedule to maintain.”
“He’s trained to lie beside her desk during instruction.” I hand her my card. “My phone stays on. I can be here within minutes if she needs me.”
Ms. Peterson tucks the card into her pocket without reading it. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary. We have protocols for helping students adjust.”
Quinn’s shoulders inch toward her ears as she listens to each word, each confirmation that I won’t stay. Sprinkles shifts closer under the desk, and her hand finds his fur.
I kneel in front of Quinn again. “Remember, I’ll be here when the last bell rings, and your uncle Blake will meet us at the docks to take you and Sprinkles for ice cream.”
“The first bell will ring in five minutes,” Ms. Peterson says, impatience slipping beneath the professional veneer. “Perhaps it would be easier for Quinn if you said your goodbyes now.”
Quinn’s eyes widen, panic flashing across her features as she realizes separation is imminent. Her hand shoots out to clutch mine again. Her breathing has accelerated, shallow puffs that could easily cascade into hyperventilation.
“One more minute,” I say to Ms. Peterson, leaving no room for argument.
She purses her lips but steps away to greet a family at the door.
“Quinn,” I say. “Look at me.”
Quinn focuses on me, her pupils wide with fear. Her body stiffens, hands curling into small fists on her desk, no tears in sight, only the stillness of a child preparing for abandonment.
I recognize the response from our early days together, before trust had taken root between us. “Quinn, can you try something with me?”