She doesn’t respond, but her eyes stay locked on my face, desperate and pleading.
“Let’s practice our breathing, same as we do at home.” I place my hand on my chest. “Four counts in.”
I inhale slowly, exaggerating the rise of my chest. After a moment’s hesitation, Quinn mimics the action, her shoulders lifting.
“Now hold for two.” I count softly. “And four counts out.”
Her breath escapes in a shaky stream. We repeat the cycle twice more, and with each round, the wild panic that threatened to overtake her recedes.
Around us, the classroom bustles as parents say goodbyes, children stow their supplies, and Ms. Peterson moves between desks.
“Feel your feet on the floor,” I continue, tapping her star-patterned sneaker. “Can you feel how solid it is?”
Quinn nods.
“Good,” I say. “Now, what do you see that’s blue?”
Her eyes dart around the room. “The reading corner pillows. And Sprinkles’s vest.”
“Perfect. What do you hear?”
“The clock.” Her voice gains strength. “And someone laughing in the hallway.”
Sprinkles shifts to lean against her legs beneath the desk. The contact draws Quinn’s hand to his fur, fingers sinking into the thick black coat, a living touchstone when anxiety threatens to sweep her away.
“When you feel scared,” I remind her, “you can reach down for Sprinkles. He’ll stay right beside you all day.”
She fidgets with the hem of her shirt. “What if Ms. Peterson tries to remove him?”
“She won’t,” I say with a confidence I don’t entirely believe. “We have permission from the school. Sprinkles has a job to do, and everyone is aware of it.”
Quinn’s fingers tighten in the dog’s fur. “What if I need you?”
The question pierces through me. In her seven years, Quinn has lost a mother to addiction, stability to chaos, and now I’m asking her to trust a system I myself fear.
“Ms. Peterson has my phone number.” I tap her desk. “I will come if you need me. This isn’t abandonment, Quinn. You are safe, and I will come back.”
Her lower lip trembles. “Promise?”
“I promise.” I hold up my pinkie, and she curls hers around it.
The first bell rings, cutting through the classroom chatter. Several parents straighten, gathering purses and briefcases, moving toward the door.
Ms. Peterson claps her hands twice, signaling the transition. “Parents, our day begins in two minutes. Please wrap up your goodbyes.”
Quinn lunges forward to wrap her arms around me. “I don’t want you to go.”
“I know.” I rub her back. “But you’re braver than you think. Remember everything you’ve already handled? Moving to the island, settling into a new home, and helping to train Sprinkles?”
Her hold loosens at the mention of her accomplishments.
“This is another brave thing,” I continue. “And brave doesn’t mean not being scared. It means doing the scary thing, anyway.”
The second bell chimes, and Ms. Peterson moves toward us, her heels clicking on the floor. “Time to begin our day, Quinn. Mr. Hollis, we need to start our morning routine.”
I disentangle myself from Quinn and stand, my knees protesting after spending so long crouched beside Quinn’s desk. “I understand.”
I tug on one of Quinn’s braids. “You can do this. And when I pick you up in the afternoon, you can tell me all about it.”