“You’ll be sitting with your class on the first day, and your teacher will show you how the cafeteria works.” I rise to my feet, my knees protesting after too many hours spent on the hard cabin floor, sorting through Quinn’s belongings for the move to the Homestead.
“In fact, I have an idea. Want to help me organize your school supplies?”
She brightens at the suggestion of a task. “Can we put them in rainbow order?”
“Absolutely.” I walk to the table where her school supplies sit in a jumbled pile. “Why don’t you sort everything by color while I do the dishes?”
Quinn releases Sprinkles and moves to the table, focus replacing some of her anxiety. Her small hands begin separating markers, folders, and notebooks into distinct piles.
“Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and violet,” she recites, creating order from chaos.
I go to the sink and start filling it with soapy water. Usually, Quinn’s Uncle Holden is the master of all things involving food, but he raced up to the Homestead to organize his new kitchen assoon as the inspector signed off on the remodel. He’ll probably whip up a seven-course dinner now that he has space to spread his wings.
“Mr. Leif?” Quinn calls, and I turn to find her holding up a folder. “This one is blue-green. Where does it go?”
I cross back to her, examining the folder. “That’s a tricky one. What do you think?”
She considers the folder before placing it between the blue and green piles. “It can be a bridge.”
Her head tips back, seeking my reassurance.
I squeeze her shoulder. “Perfect solution.”
A tentative smile breaks across her face, the first genuine one of the morning. “Can I wear my blue shirt with the stars? It’s my brave shirt.”
“Of course. Let’s find it so we can iron it before Monday.”
As Quinn darts off to the bedroom area to search for her brave shirt, Sprinkles follows at her heels.
I straighten, rolling my shoulders to release some of the tension. Boxes line the cabin walls, each labeled with a destination for the Homestead or storage.
Quinn’s artwork taped to the refrigerator pulls me up short. A stick-figure version of her and the Wright Pack fills the page, with a taller figure at her side that’s meant to be me. Sprinkles looms twice the size of everyone else, his black shape standing watch over the paper family.
“Found it!” Quinn calls from the bedroom.
I stack the rinsed dishes into the drying rack, wiping my hands on a dishtowel as Quinn returns, her brave shirt clutched in one small fist.
“Mr. Leif?” Her voice is small again. “What if the teacher makes me tell the class about myself?”
I hang the towel to dry. “What would you want them to know about Quinn Wright?”
She twists the fabric between her fingers. “I have a service dog named Sprinkles who helps me be brave. And I can name all the constellations in the summer sky.”
“Perfect,” I say, watching her shoulders relax. “What else?”
“Maybe…that I lived in a cabin in the woods, but now I live in a big house with my uncles, and you’re my nanny?”
“Good.” I pick up a pencil from the table, rolling it between my fingers. “And if anyone asks about before you came to Pinecrest?”
Quinn’s enthusiasm dims. “I say that’s private family stuff, and they can talk to Uncle Blake if they have questions.”
The pencil bends under the pressure of my grip, and I force my fingers to relax before it snaps. “Perfect.”
She bounces toward the kitchen, attention already shifting. “Will there be kids who like sea creatures? Will we have playground time? Do I have to share my crayons?”
I follow her, listening to the stream of questions while my mind catalogs vulnerabilities. Teachers notice patterns for children who flinch at raised voices, who hoard food, and who struggle with transitions.
I met Quinn’s biological mother over the summer on one of her visits, and I hadn’t missed how strained their relationship was. Blake had explained a little to me about the history of abuse and alcoholism that led to child neglect. It makes me want to bubble wrap Quinn and save her from the curiosity of her peers.