Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Leif
Quinn’s hand tightens around mine, her small fingers clammy in my grasp. We stand before the broad stone steps of Pinecrest Academy, its brick facade towering three stories high against the cloudless September sky.
My heart hammers with anxiety, but I stuff it all down and give her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Ready to go inside?”
“Yes,” she says, but doesn’t move as she stares at the double doors where children stream past, their voices carrying across the courtyard in excited bursts.
A parent walking past gives Sprinkles a curious look, his service vest a splash of blue against glossy black fur, then leans in to whisper to another adult. Their eyes move from the dog to Quinn to me, and my spine stiffens under the quiet appraisal.
I wish it could have just stayed Quinn and me on the island, but her uncles are right to want her to gain social skills that can only come from interacting with her peers.
“The school looks bigger than in the pictures,” Quinn whispers.
“Buildings often do.” I gesture toward the entrance. “Let’s go find your classroom. Ms. Peterson is excited to meet you.”
We climb the steps, Quinn’s grip tightening with each one. Sprinkles stays in perfect heel position, his training evident in every controlled movement.
At the top, Quinn pauses again, and I bend to her level. “Remember what Uncle Blake said? You’re a Wright. And Wrights can do hard things.”
She takes a deep breath. “Even scary things.”
“Especially scary things.”
The doors swing open, releasing a wave of sound and scent. Children’s voices bounce off linoleum floors, sneakers squeak, lockers clang, and beneath it all, the chemical tang of floor cleaner mingles with cafeteria breakfast.
Quinn flinches at the assault, her free hand covering one ear.
I guide her to a quieter spot beside a display of student artwork. “Let’s take a moment to get our bearings.”
I scan the crowded hallway, identifying potential allies among the staff. A group of third-graders races past, their backpacks bouncing, and Quinn shrinks into my side. Sprinkles shifts to stand between her and the flow of traffic.
“The kindergarten and first-grade rooms are down that hall,” I explain, pointing to our left where colorful handprints decorate the walls. “And your second-grade classroom is this way.”
We navigate the hallway, moving at Quinn’s pace, while every instinct screams at me to turn around and to take Quinn back to the safety of the Homestead.
Carson is somewhere in this building, but he can’t touch me with all these parents and teachers as witnesses, I remind myself.
“Mr. Leif?” Quinn tugs my sleeve. “My tummy feels funny.”
I kneel beside her, carving out a pocket of calm amid the rush of students. “That’s normal for the first few days. Remember how we talked about how stress in our bodies signals our nerves to react?”
Her fingers worry at the hem of her star-patterned shirt. “Yes.”
“Well, my tummy feels funny, too.” The admission costs me nothing but gives her permission to be afraid without shame.
“Really?”
“Really.” I tap her nose. “But we’re going to be brave together, right?”
Her chin lifts a fraction. “Right.”
Room one-fourteen appears on our right, the door propped open with a wooden apple. Inside, a woman with copper hair twisted into a neat bun arranges papers on her desk.
The classroom walls burst with primary colors, alphabet charts, number lines, and a behavior chart with clothespins bearing each student’s name clipped to “Ready to Learn.”
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?”
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.