The kitchen smelled faintly of cinnamon rolls, the kind her father always baked on Saturday mornings. Riley sat at the table, poking at her plate with a fork. She had not touched the roll in front of her. The icing dripped down the side, melting into a small pool, but she barely noticed.
Her father, Mr. Dawson, glanced up from the newspaper. His gray hair caught the light from the window, and his glasses slid down the bridge of his nose. He studied her silently for a moment before folding the paper.
“Alright, spit it out,” he said gently.
Riley blinked, startled. “What?
“You’ve been staring at that poor roll like it’s about to confess a crime,” he teased. “Something’s on your mind. And don’t say anything, because I know better.
She tried to smile, but it came out weak.
“I’m fine, Da
