Aunt Gail's first words to her in four years are, "How was school?"

"It was lovely," she says on automatic, without thought for how the words might relate to reality. Her aunt envelops her in a perfunctory hug, which she stiffly accepts. "When will dinner be served? I think I'd like to go for a walk first, if that's possible."

"Oh, not for a few hours, most likely," Aunt Gail says vaguely. How can anyone live like that? Never mind. She'll have to get used to it.

"All right. I'll be back here by then." She contemplates this sentence, then dares to add, "Most likely."

Aunt Gail looks at her quizzically.

She escapes upstairs to change out of her school uniform, only to discover that none of her old clothes fit her anymore, which she could've anticipated if she'd thought about it for two seconds. She ends up in a slightly-too-small shirt that used to be slightly too big, and a pair of faded, baggy cargo pants with sparkly rocks still tucked into all the pockets, which no longer quite reach her ankles but are otherwise serviceable. Nestling her school bag back onto her shoulder for the comforting familiarity, she realizes that it would be silly to haul a bunch of textbooks around town, pulls them all out, then fills the bag with poetry and old favourites until it hangs with the correct weight.

After narrowly dodging further interaction with Aunt Gail on her way out, she heads immediately toward the park whose inviting green corner she glimpsed on her way into town. She wants to sit on a bench and read a book more than she wants just about anything else in the world.