Brielle told her fashion had nothing to do with walking.
I stayed out of that argument.
Mostly.
I labeled chargers.
They removed my labels.
I printed emergency information.
They told me everything was already in their phones.
At one point, Taryn caught me laminating an accessibility checklist.
She stared at it.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“You laminated it.”
“That’s called being prepared.”
Brielle rolled her eyes.
“You’ve spent eighteen years teaching us not to panic.”
“I’m not panicking.”
Taryn looked at the six-page checklist.
“This is panic with office supplies.”
I laughed.
A week later, I moved Taryn into her dorm first, then drove three hours to help Brielle.
After adjusting Brielle’s desk for the third time, she stopped me.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“Go home.”
“That’s rude.”
“You’ve been here for four hours.”
“There were things to fix.”
“The things were fixed two hours ago.”
I looked around the room.
