“Amara? Amara Hayes, is that you?”

The voice hit me like a physical blow. It was familiar, deep, and laced with a confusion that terrified me. I froze, my hand tightening instinctively around Miles’s mitten. I considered running, just bolting for the stairs, but my legs felt like lead.

I turned slowly. Standing ten feet away, looking impeccably put together in a wool coat and scarf, was my father, Vernon.

I hadn’t seen him in two months. I had dodged his calls, invented flu bugs, work crises, and imaginary vacations. I had built a wall of lies to keep him away, to keep him safe. But now, the wall had crumbled.

He closed the distance, his eyes—usually so warm—narrowing as they scanned me. He took in everything: the rip in my puffer coat where the down was leaking out, the gaunt hollows of my cheeks, the dark bruising of exhaustion under my eyes, and the tremor in my hands that I couldn’t suppress.