Doesn’t make mine worse.
The next morning, I went into Dad’s garage.
For the first time since January, the lock was gone.
I opened the door.
And finally saw what Ethan had been doing.
Wood scraps covered the floor.
Sandpaper lay on the workbench.
Practice pieces filled a cardboard box.
There were crooked cuts.
Burn marks.
Bent hinges.
Pieces of wood where he’d tried repeatedly to write my name.
CLAIR.
CLAIRE.
CLAIRE B.
One scrap simply said:
CLARE
with an angry X burned over it.
Then I found the failed hummingbirds.
Ethan hadn’t lied.
One looked like a chicken.
The other looked like something scientists might discover at the bottom of the ocean.
I kept both.
Mr. Warren appeared in the doorway behind me.
“So,” he said, “you finally got permission to enter.”
I smiled.
“I guess so.”
He walked inside slowly.
His hands were rough and swollen.
“You helped him.”
