Riley. She stopped herself at the last moment. The way children who have been taught about personal space remember it too late. Hi. Hi, Sophie.
Gerald wanted to know if you were coming back. A pause. I told him probably yes. Riley crouched to Sophie's level. Gerald was right.
The girl beamed. Daniel taught her how to check the fuel mixture and adjust the idle. He was a different kind of teacher than anyone she'd hired, patient. Not because patience was his strategy, but because he genuinely moved at the pace the problem required. He didn't explain things from a place of wanting to be appreciated for knowing them.
He just explained them. She helped Sophie build a snow fort in the lot while Daniel worked on a client's truck. Sophie had very specific architectural opinions about snow forts. The walls needed to be at least two feet high. There needed to be a window on the south side, and the entrance had to be small enough to keep out invaders.
A category that, upon investigation, included mainly the wind. You're good at this, Sophie said, packing snow with her mittened hands. I haven't built a snow fort in about 20 years, Riley said. Sophie found this incomprehensible. Why not?
I got busy. With what? Riley looked at the mountain ridge above the town, sharp against the blue sky. Work, mostly. Dad works a lot, too, Sophie said, but he still builds snow forts.
She paused. He built me this one last year. The walls weren't as good as yours. Don't tell him I said that. Your secret is safe.