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Dad was reluctant to see us go. He stood in the driveway as I lugged my bags over to Luke's minivan, the sun just barely peeking over the trees, bright against the blue-gray sky. He'd asked me several times if I was sure, assured me that I could stay home, that I wasn't obligated to go—but I hadn't come that far to give up. And so we left, with Luke in the driver's seat and me in the passenger's, using my phone as a GPS. "Turn right here," I said, a few minutes after we'd set off, and Luke laughed. "I know how to get out of your neighborhood, Hemmings." "Sorry." "It's okay," he said, and I looked out the window, breathing in and out slowly, the reality of what was about to happen finally settling in. His hand found mine, and our fingers interlocked, and I shot him a
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