Just as Harper took another cautious bite of her pancakes, a gentle knock came at the front door.
Mariah glanced up, a small smile tugging at her lips. "That must be Leah."
The door swung open, and Leah stepped inside confidently, her school blazer thrown casually over her shoulders. Her ponytail bobbed with each step, and her bright eyes scanned the room until they landed on Harper.
"Oh! Hey, Harper." Leah said, her voice warm but cautious, as if trying to bridge an awkward gap. Her smile was easy but not overly familiar.
Harper looked up quickly, caught off guard by the sudden attention. She forced a small, tight smile, unsure what to say. "Hi."
Leah nodded, glancing briefly at Aura before returning her gaze to Harper. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"
"Yeah." Harper murmured, feeling her cheeks warm slightly.
Leah's smile softened, genuine but measured. "It's really nice to have you back at school. We all... missed you."
Harper's throat tightened. The words felt heavy, almost foreign. She wasn't sure if Leah meant it for her—or for Aura—or simply out of kindness. Still, the flicker of goodwill was something Harper hadn't expected, and she found herself holding onto it.
Aura smiled encouragingly from the table, and Harper's gaze softened. For a moment, the weight pressing on her chest felt just a little lighter.
"Alright well.. We will be off now, see you at school Harper."
The two girls stepped outside, their laughter trailing off into the crisp morning air as the door clicked shut behind them. Leah's cheerful voice faded down the walkway, Aura's softer giggle following, almost hesitant in comparison.
Jackson followed behind.
Inside, the Baldwin house exhaled into a lull—still alive, but quieter now. A brittle stillness settled in the kitchen, broken only by the gentle clatter of Mariah rinsing dishes in the sink and the rustling sounds of Camila and Thomas making their final dash out the door.
Camila muttered as she pulled on her heels in the hallway. "Can you grab my keys?"
"I've got them." Thomas replied, one hand adjusting his tie, the other fumbling with his phone. "Let's go. Bye Harper, we love you!"
A flurry of movement followed—shoes scuffing tile, coats swinging from hooks, muffled goodbyes—and then the front door slammed behind them, leaving Harper alone with the hum of the refrigerator and the soft sizzle of the stove's cooling surface.
Harper remained at the kitchen table, shoulders slightly hunched, picking absently at her now-cooling pancakes. The scent of cinnamon and bacon still lingered in the air, warm and pleasant—but the taste had faded into the background. Her appetite had already left with the noise.
The silence now was different from peace. It was too empty. Too aware.
She lifted her fork again, scraped it gently across the porcelain plate, and then set it down. Her eyes drifted to the window—just enough to catch the faintest glimpse of Aura's red backpack bouncing down the sidewalk in the distance.
Then, a knock.
This one was different. Not rushed like Camila's usual goodbye tap or Aura's impatient rhythm. It was firm. Measured. Deliberate.
Mariah wiped her hands on a rag and moved to answer it, her footsteps soft on the tile. She opened the door with her usual calmness and offered the practiced smile of someone trained in politeness.
"Good morning." she greeted with a gentle nod.
A tall woman stood on the porch, her posture upright and authoritative. She wore a crisp navy coat, her salt-and-pepper hair cropped close to her scalp. One hand held a clipboard, her fingers neatly manicured. She looked like someone who was always on time. Always watching.
"Morning." she said, stepping in. Her gaze swept the entryway before falling to the kitchen table. "I'm here for Harper?"
At the table, Harper straightened, quickly brushing a stray crumb from her skirt. She didn't rise, but she acknowledged the woman with a small nod.
"Hi, Ms. Dorsey."
Nadine Dorsey was the type of adult who didn't need to raise her voice to be taken seriously. Harper had met with her enough times now to recognize the balance in her tone—firm but not unkind. There was never judgment in her voice, but never warmth either. Just watchfulness.
Ms. Dorsey crossed the room with unhurried steps and pulled out a chair across from Harper. She sat gracefully, crossing one leg over the other, and let her clipboard rest on her knee. She didn't open it yet. Instead, she looked at Harper in a way that was steady but not invasive—like she was trying to see through her without breaking her apart.
"So.." she began, voice smooth. "How're you doing this morning?"
Harper lifted a shoulder in a slow shrug, her expression unreadable. "It's fine." she said, a little flat. "First day nerves, I guess."
Ms. Dorsey didn't speak right away. She studied her—really studied her—for a long beat. Not suspicious, not cold. Just present.
"That's fair." she replied at last. "First days are always the hardest. Especially when they're... new in more ways than one."
Harper's eyes flicked away, landing on the syrup patterns congealing on her plate. She tapped her fingernail against the edge of her fork rhythmically, avoiding the weight in Dorsey's words.
After a moment, Dorsey added lightly, "You look nice. The haircut suits you."
Harper looked up, just for a second, surprised by the comment. Her hand rose self-consciously to touch the shorter strands behind her ear.
"Thanks." she murmured, her voice low.
Dorsey gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. "We'll take it slow today, Harper." she said, tone calm and steady.
"Just want to make sure you settle in okay, get through the day. I'll be checking in with your guidance counselor later this week. We're going to stay on top of things—keep everything aligned with the court's terms."
Harper gave a small nod, but inside, her chest tightened with that familiar feeling. Like a coil winding inside her. Every reminder of the rules—curfew, sessions, court-mandated structure—chipped at her carefully built calm. It was like living under glass: protected, but always being watched.
Ms. Dorsey stood and smoothed the sleeves of her coat. "Grab your bag. I'll drive you. Let's go."
Harper pushed back her chair slowly, the wooden legs scraping against the tile. She slung her backpack over one shoulder and gave the kitchen a lingering look—at the empty plates, the coffee cup still warm from Thomas's hand, the faint echo of earlier tension still clinging to the walls.
She followed Ms. Dorsey to the door. The morning sun spilled through the windows, bright and unbothered, glinting off the car parked at the curb.
The car rolled to a gentle stop outside the main building of St. Phillips, its tires crunching against the gravel of the school's circular drive. The engine ticked faintly in the silence as students streamed past—some in clusters, chatting and laughing; others alone, heads bent over phones or earbuds tucked in.
Inside the car, Harper remained completely still.
Her hand clutched the strap of her backpack so tightly it trembled against her knee. Her other hand rested on her thigh, fingers rhythmically tapping—a nervous tic that had returned recently. She stared out the window, her eyes fixed on the tall iron gates and the wide steps leading up to the front entrance.
Every step she took from here would feel like walking into an arena.
She could already hear the whispers in her head:
Is that the girl who went to juvie?
I heard she tried to kill her grandmother.
Didn't she get sent away?
Her chest tightened, the pressure rising just beneath her ribcage like something folding inward. She couldn't tell if it was fear or shame. Probably both.
"You don't have to rush, Harper." Ms. Dorsey said beside her, her voice calm, steady. "We've got a few minutes."
Harper nodded faintly, but her fingers didn't stop moving. Tap, tap, tap. She closed her eyes for a second and breathed in through her nose. The scent of the car's minty air freshener was almost overwhelming.
Then the school bell rang.
The sharp clang split the air like a gunshot.
Harper flinched, jerking slightly in her seat. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she wasn't in the car. She was back in that camp.
The cold linoleum.
The metal beds.
The sound of the counselors' keys jangling just before the door burst open.
Wake up! Line up! Now!
The whistle. That same shrill, piercing sound.
She shook her head quickly, almost as if trying to physically scatter the memory from her brain. Her hands clenched in her lap, digging into her jeans.
Ms. Dorsey saw it. She didn't comment, but her gaze softened.
She stared at the students like they belonged to a different species.
"I don't think I can do this." she whispered. It wasn't performative. It wasn't for pity. It just slipped out.
Ms. Dorsey reached across the center console and gently rested a hand near Harper's, never touching—just close enough to feel grounded.
"Every step you take is a step away from where you were." she said quietly. "No one's asking you to be perfect. You just have to keep showing up."
Harper didn't respond right away. She looked down at her lap, at the tiny white half-moon marks her fingernails had pressed into her thighs. Her heartbeat was still too fast. Her throat still tight.
Ms. Dorsey continued, her tone firmer now, but not unkind. "You don't owe anyone your story, Harper. Not today. Not ever, unless you choose to tell it. Walk through those doors like they don't get to own your past. Because they don't."
Harper blinked again. That landed.
She exhaled slowly, the sound shaky and uneven. Her fingers finally unhooked from her bag strap. She unclicked her seatbelt. The door creaked open with a heavy groan, and sunlight poured in like it had been waiting for her.
She stepped out, the school looming tall and stern in front of her.
The chatter, the movement, the squeak of sneakers on pavement—all of it came at her too fast, too loud. She pulled her blazer tighter around her body, head down, trying to shrink herself into her own outline.
Her stomach churned as she stepped forward. Her legs felt stiff, like they didn't quite belong to her. Her shoes scraped along the sidewalk, each step feeling like it echoed too loudly.
A couple of students glanced her way. One whispered something to the other.
Harper kept her head down. She focused on the rhythm of her breathing, like she'd learned in therapy.
In for four. Hold. Out for six.