She stepped off, bag slung over one shoulder, and watched the bus groan away down the street. The usual. The same houses, the same tired lawns, the same blue mailbox with the dented side from when someone's dad had backed into it with his truck.

A dog barked somewhere. A screen door slammed shut.

Inside, the house smelled like floor cleaner and old coffee. A pile of mail sat unopened on the counter. The clock ticked. Three forty-seven. Her father wouldn't be home for at least an hour. Tommy too, probably, if he'd come at all today.

She dropped her bag by the stairs and pulled out her homework. The same math problems. The same dull buzz of a radio at the back of her mind—some news station her father always left on in the kitchen.

She looked up.

Mr. Bentley was pressed against the glass.