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He gave me a flat look. “I promise you I’ll take care of you. And you’ll learn how to take care of yourself. You’ll get strong, and you’ll get smart, and you will never, ever forget this year. It’s not forever. Just until next summer.”

It seemed like an eternity. And the thought of weathering a winter here was terrifying. But what was the alternative? The Wilkersons.

One year. One year in foster care or one year here.

He’d stayed one year for me, back when I was baby. So okay. I’d give him what he gave me, and not a day more. “Just until the summer?”

“Then I’ll take you wherever you want to go,” Dad said.

“Fine. Okay.” Maybe I could handle a year here. There was hot chocolate in the cabin. Hot chocolate and campfires in a log cabin. People paid for that sort of thing. Besides, Dad was right. This would make an amazing college admissions essay. And I would always have the most interesting story to tell at parties.

“Shake on it?” Dad said. He reached out a hand.

I took it. It was the first time I’d touched my dad of my own accord since I was a kid. His hand was impossibly rough and callused, the creases packed with dirt. My hand felt tiny by comparison.

We shook, and I started counting down the days to next summer.