She didn’t tuck her hands up inside the fleece sleeves.

She unzipped the front pocket of her backpack and slid the history book in.

In October, picking that bag up off the floor had shot a sharp line of pain straight up into her chest.

She used to lean on the brick wall by the school parking lot, holding her stomach while she waited for my car.

Today she grabbed the top nylon handle of the heavy bag and swung it up onto her right shoulder in one smooth motion.

“I’m ready to go,” she said.