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with chipped, flaking paint, the trim painted white. The porch sagged on one side. A clothesline with bleached-out wooden clothespins was looped between the posts, just under the rafters. A memory wisped like a fast-moving cloud through Chris’s head. He remembered his mother hanging her underwear there and his grandfather raging at its impropriety. His grandfather cared about things like that. His mother didn’t.
    Chris walked up to the front door. He tried the doorknob, expecting nothing, but when it turned in his hand, he let out a surprised gasp.
    “What?” Jenny rushed to his side.
    He pushed the door open, its hinges screaming a protest.
    What he saw made him want to back right up and run. “I guess we’re home,” he whispered.

3
    M ary Kate woke early, after a restless night. Today was the first day of school, and she was the schoolteacher. She had absolutely no idea how to teach school. She slipped out of bed and dressed, then went downstairs. Last night, she had made up a batch of wheat bread dough and put it in the refrigerator. It was a special recipe that required a long kneading time.
    She took the bowl out of the refrigerator and turned the dough onto a lightly floured surface. She deflated the dough—gently pressing down to let the air out. By gently squeezing out the excess carbon dioxide, the yeast would be more fully distributed throughout the dough. Then she started the kneading process: turn and fold, turn and fold, turn and fold. She knew she would need the task this morning—kneading bread could dispel a good deal of anxiety from even the most nervous heart.
    And it did help. By the time her father woke to head outside and feed the livestock, she was almost calm. Almost. “There’s coffee started,” she said. Her voice sounded thin and wavery.
    Amos poured himself a cup and peered at the bread shewas kneading. “Wheat. Hmmm. You must be feeling pretty fidgety.”
    Panic rose up again inside of M.K. “I can’t do it, Dad.”
    Amos put the coffee cup on the counter. “Of course you can. You’ve never failed yet at anything you tried to do, have you?”
    “Well, no, but I have never tried to teach school.”
    “You’ve tackled every job that ever came your way. You never shirked, and you always stuck to it till you did what you set out to do. Success gets to be a habit, like anything else a person keeps on doing.”
    M.K. felt a little better. It was true; she had always kept on trying, she had always had to. Well, now she had to teach school.
    “Remember when Sadie ended up with the job of tending chickens? And she just couldn’t bring herself to butcher one. You just picked up that ax and—” he made a cutting motion with his hand—“the lights went out on that poor chicken. You must have only been eight or so.”
    “Seven.”
    “And remember when Jimmy Fisher took his pigeons to school and accidentally released them inside the schoolhouse?”
    M.K.’s head snapped up. “That was no accident! He let them go on purpose.”
    “And you helped capture them.”
    M.K. grinned. “Alice Smucker hid under her desk.”
    “Now that is not something you would ever do as a teacher. You’re too brave.”
    She put the bread dough into an oiled bowl to rise. Fern would bake it later this morning. She turned to her father. “Do you really think I’m brave?”
    He patted her shoulder. “The bravest girl I know.”
    At ten minutes to seven, M.K. couldn’t put it off any longer. She picked up her Igloo lunch box and left for school.

    Jenny couldn’t believe her ears. “You mean you want me to lie to everyone and say that my last name is Yoder?”
    “It’s for the best, Jenny,” Chris said. The two of them were eating together at the kitchen table. “This is kind of . . . interesting. I don’t believe I’ve ever had Cream of Wheat that looked like soup before.” He lifted his spoon and the Cream of Wheat slipped off like a waterfall.
    Jenny may have used a little too much