Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Leif
“Will my teacher like me?” Quinn asks for the third time in five minutes, her small hands twisting the straps of her backpack, which she’s been wearing all morning.
I set down the packing tape, flinching at the clatter of heavy plastic on the tabletop. Instinct pulls me toward the window before I turn back to her, fingers twitching as I scrape together patience from reserves gutted by a night spent jolting awake at every creak and shadow.
Morning light streams through the cabin windows, illuminating the worry written across Quinn’s face and reminding me to stay present for her, no matter what’s unfolding in my personal life.
“Any teacher will be lucky to have you in their class,” I tell her, despite the exhaustion pulling at my patience. “Remember what we talked about earlier?”
“That I should be myself,” Quinn recites, but her fingers continue their nervous dance along the backpack straps. “But what if I’m not what they want?”
The question hits harder than she knows. I move through the cluttered chaos of Cabin One, stepping around a half-packed box of books marked Quinn’s Room.
“Your teacher will appreciate your curiosity and your kindness. And they’ll love that you always ask interesting questions.”
Quinn bounces from one foot to the other, energy radiating off her small frame. “But what if I ask too many questions? Uncle Blake says I talk a lot. What if the other kids think I’m weird? What if I forget my lunch? Can Sprinkles really stay with me? He helps when I’m scared.”
The rapid-fire questions come without pause for breath, each one laced with an anxiety I recognize all too well. Quinn’s focus bounces around the cabin, landing on her playroom boxes before moving to the window, then to me, seeking anchors in a sea of uncertainty.
Moving back to the Homestead at the same time as Quinn is preparing for her first day of second grade is the worst timing possible. Her safe space is being taken from her at the same time she’s being thrown into grade school, a year after her peers will have already formed friend cliques.
It doesn’t matter that she’s excited to return to her old room, or that she wants friends. Her sense of stability is being disrupted on all sides.
I kneel at her level and place my hands on her shoulders, which tremble beneath my palms.
“Take a breath with me.” I demonstrate a deep inhale, and Quinn mirrors me. “Good. Now out, slowly.”
Her breath shudders as she exhales. Behind her, Sprinkles rises from his spot by the door, sensing the spike in her anxiety. The massive Newfoundland pads over, his nails clicking on the wooden floor. He leans his massive body against Quinn’s side, and some of the tension leaves her slight frame.
“There you go,” I murmur as she sinks her fingers into Sprinkles’s thick black fur. “Now, let’s tackle those questions one at a time. Yes, you can ask questions in class. That’s what school is for. The other kids might have the same questions, but are too nervous to speak up.”
Her eyes widen. “Really?”
“Really. And yes, Sprinkles can come to school with you. Your Uncle Blake already spoke to the dean and your teacher about it. But you can’t let him become a disruption to the class. He’ll be there to work, just like you’ll be there to learn.”
Quinn’s hand tightens in Sprinkles’s fur, and the dog leans more of his weight on her. “What about lunch? What if no one wants to sit with me?”
“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 as soon 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.
She’s been through so much already.
Quinn tugs at my sleeve, pulling me back to the present. “Mr. Leif, are you listening?”
“Sorry.” I focus on her upturned face. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you think anyone will want to be my friend.” The question comes out smaller, stripped of her usual bravado.
I settle onto the chair beside her. “I think you’ll have to fight them off with a stick.”
She giggles, the sound loosening some of the tension in my shoulders. “That’s silly. I wouldn’t hit anyone.”
“It’s a figure of speech. I meant that you’ll have lots of friends,” I explain as I slip my hands into my pockets, and my fingers bump up against my cell phone, making me flinch.
You know how patient I am. Carson’s message sits at the back of my mind like a ghost. He hasn’t contacted me again, but the silence is worse.
The teacher summit began earlier in the week, hosted at The Mainland Hotel. Which means Carson’s been in Pinecrest since last weekend. So far, I’ve managed not to run into him, or anyone from my old school district.
I only need to make it three more days. Then all the educators from across the state, including Carson, will return home. Three more days of holding my breath every time I race from my car to the water taxi or the hotel where I’m staying until my staff cabin is ready.
“Can we pack my books next?” Quinn asks, interrupting my spiraling thoughts.
“Good idea.” I move to the bookshelf in the living area, pulling an empty box closer. “Why don’t you hand me the books, and I’ll put them in the box?”
“Okay.” She selects titles from the bottom shelf with careful consideration. I take each book she offers, arranging them in the cardboard box.
Quinn pauses in her book selection, studying me with unsettling perception. “Mr. Leif, why do you look worried?”
I school my features into a semblance of calm. “I’m thinking about everything we need to pack before the move.”
She accepts this explanation, returning to her task. “Uncle Blake says we can paint my new room any color I want. It was a rainbow before, but I think purple would be nice. Or maybe blue like the ocean.”
“Both are excellent choices.”