“It feels weird not having to watch the kitchen clock every four hours for pain pills,” Grace said softly.

“It’s a good kind of weird,” I said.

“Dad called the school guidance office yesterday afternoon,” she said, looking back down at her pencil.

I set my mug on the edge of the bookshelf and stepped closer to her desk.

“What did he want, Grace?”

“He told the school secretary he had two boxes of my winter clothes at his place and wanted to drop them off at our front door,” she said.

“What did you tell her?”