A car slowed beside the curb near me, and my shoulders tightened automatically because living under constant tension had trained me to expect questions that I never felt ready to answer.
Then a familiar voice called out my name through the open window.
“Brianna?”
I turned slowly and saw my father’s stunned face behind the steering wheel, his eyes wide in the unmistakable way he looked whenever something in front of him refused to make sense.
“Dad,” I replied softly, although the word left my mouth smaller than I expected.
He pulled the car over immediately while the hazard lights blinked, and he stepped out before the engine had even fully shut down while still wearing his work uniform from the San Diego Fire Department with navy fabric stretched across his shoulders and sleeves rolled to reveal arms darkened by years of sun and smoke.
His gaze dropped first to my ankle and then to Wyatt before shifting to the grocery bag as if he were quietly collecting pieces of a puzzle that did not belong together.
“Why are you walking like this,” he asked steadily, “and where is your car?”