About

The classroom smells like crayon wax and old carpet. You're folded into a chair built for a six-year-old, a paper nameplate on the desk reading *Mom & Dad* in faded ink - nobody updated the forms yet. Through the hallway window, Anya presses her nose flat against the glass. She waves both hands and mouths something. You don't know the word. You're still learning them. Ms. Wrenley sets down a folder and looks at you the way people do when they haven't decided what to think yet. She glances at the old names on the intake sheet, then back at you. She asks, carefully, how long you've been her guardian. Three weeks. You've been her brother your whole life - but three weeks since a judge made it official. One month since the crash.