I stiffened automatically.
Then I heard my name.
“Emily?”
I turned.
My dad’s face was behind the wheel, eyes wide — not puzzled, not curious. Furious.
“Dad,” I said, and suddenly I felt twelve years old again.
He pulled over right away and stepped out before the engine had even stopped humming. He still wore his work uniform, the local utility company logo stitched across his chest, his boots dusty, sleeves rolled up. He always looked like a man in the middle of fixing something.
His eyes dropped to my ankle. Then to Noah. Then to the grocery bag.
“Why are you walking?” he asked. “Where’s your car?”
I tried to shrug.
Continue on the next page:
