“Do you want me to come in with you?” Arry regards me with scrutiny, standing in the street outside the old-fashioned brick building, and I blink up at him with a serious frown. Stomach in knots.

“You’re kidding, right? What, like you’re my dad, and this is kindergarten?” I resist the urge to fan my face for the third time, push down nausea and nerves and refrain from shoving Arry’s fussing hands off me. He’s fixing my jacket for the second time in five minutes, and ...