He flips pages faster then, seeing a pool of silver water. An otter and an owl. The tall chimneys of the school that is, and always will be, a haven for children who need a place of safety.

  Now both journeys come full circle with me as the link between them. I’m in a clearing making the same mark with a hammer and nails as a Polish boy once did on the front of a diary.

  “Olek W.”

  Rae digs in his portfolio for a photocopy, and Aleksander touches childish handwriting with wonder. With recognition, I realise. With a fingertip that traces over the shortened version of his own name he once printed.

  Aleksander says, “This is mine,” and Rae doesn’t only know a perfect final image when he sees it.

  He goes ahead and draws it.

  He spends days and days adding to his final drawing in this forest while I translate each time Aleksander gets emotional. His voice thickens often. Roughens. It’s good to return the favour by being here for him when memories are a combination of sweet to recall and tough to deal with.

  “Yes,” Rae tells him. “The camp is still right there. Hayden cut a path into it for me. It’s pretty derelict now.”

  I nod. “I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it before. That Dad hadn’t ever shown me where it was hidden.”

  Aleksander has a potential reason for that. “Maybe because his father had a bad time. Was injured here.” He touches his temple. “He stayed isolated. Integrating wasn’t easy. Still wasn’t for me, even though I was born there. My world stopped at the camp gates. Not because it was a prison. Because we weren’t always welcome. Until…”

  He next touches the edge of a mosaic Rae copied from one all three of us have stood on.

  “He didn’t have the help to learn English that I did. The chances to make friends outside the camp.” Old eyes meet mine, but this comes out sounding almost childlike. “They really found the time capsule?” Worry comes next. “It was buried in a foundation. The headmaster said he would plant it there like a seed. That we could set down roots there. Has the building been demolished?” He seems resigned to this. “It was already old when I was there. I heard there was a fire.”

  “No, it’s still there.” Rae finds the school website on his phone and shows it to him. “Look. They just built a new library. Renovated the art building too. I think the sports hall is next.” He pauses over a photo of the school pitch, then scrolls again only to stop dead.

  “What is it?” I lean closer to see why Rae’s finger takes a turn to shake. “That’s my clearing.” I read out the heading. “‘Welcome to our new Forest School.’”

  Rae meets my eyes. “It says they need a teacher.”

  He has sounded certain about a lot in the last two days. Certain about us, and how we don’t need a deadline for finding a way to link our futures. He is also sure enough about this to jab a finger at me.

  “They’ve already got a teacher. I’m looking right at him. All you have to do is tell Luke you want it.” Then he’s understanding. “I get why you felt like you couldn’t commit.”

  Dad didn’t get a whole lot of seasons after his diagnosis. I wasn’t sure I would either.

  Rae is understanding with Kirsty too when she brings the girls to camp with us one evening. He gives us space to read reports from specialists confirming how unlikely it is I’ll follow in Dad’s footsteps. Rae keeps the girls distracted while she and I talk through possibilities, and I repeat what has been on my mind since my laugh boomed out like Mitch’s. “Did you know heading the ball on purpose has been banned in competition for kids?”

  She nods.

  “Do you know why?” She didn’t, so I list how repeated concussive events can accumulate only to show up later. How no one can turn back the clock on early damage forming, but it can be mitigated.

  “What with?”

  “Lifestyle adjustments.”

  “Like?”

  “Like reducing stress and getting more rest. And by having plenty of peace and quiet.” That describes the opposite of my noisy, stressful, feast-or-famine workload lately, most of which was self-inflicted. “I felt like I had to do as much as I could just in case…”

  I can’t pretend to be a doctor, but my hands haven’t shaken since I let go of a shit ton of worry and slept like a log for days out here. The only shaky thing left is her smile. “We’ll find out the reason, love.” She sniffs. “We’ll face whatever it is together.”

  Like sunflowers.

  And like one of those giant blooms Dad used to plant, I seek my own sun by finding Rae in the cabin. He is wedged between my sisters on a sagging sofa with a book on his lap, and I don’t need to see the cover to know it will be star-filled. Isla turns a page to show a kid with skinny arms holding back a huge boulder.

  For a first time, I get to see how this story pans out, and how, many pages later, this kid is joined by a father he thought he’d lost to addiction.

  Ava interprets. “He got his daddy back?”

  Rae meets my eye before nodding. “Took a while, but yeah. It doesn’t always happen, which is what these pages in between were all about.” He flicks back to the beginning, then meets my eyes. His are dark with compassion. “We don’t always get the things we hope for, do we? The things we’d give anything in the world for.”

  I nod, and he continues.

  “This kid’s boulder was made of hope, and hope can be the heaviest thing to hold on to.”

  Page after page shows how he wasn’t alone—other people take turns to hold his boulder for him, and I thank fuck Rae got to see this example when his own arms were shaking.

  He tells my sisters, “Even if he didn’t get what he hoped for, he found out that he didn’t have to get crushed. That getting on with having a good life would only make him stronger. Strong enough to take a turn at holding on to hope for other people.”

  I hold on to some hope of my own on Friday.

  Hold on to it?

  There’s no fucking way I’ll drop this ball for Rae. I keep a death grip on it the whole way to London.

  We take the train past fields empty of wheat, and that evidence of the farming cycle should pull at me—would leave me worried about finding work this winter if I didn’t have a text message on my phone from someone else who has been hoping.

  For me.

  Luke Lawson: Yes, I can get you a place on that course.

  Luke Lawson: Find me after school starts again on Monday. We’ll talk.

  For once, I don’t dread a conversation about the future. I’m looking forward even as Rae looks back before entering that publisher’s office.

  His eyes don’t dance.

  They are laser-focussed, and I love to see it. I love that he isn’t alone either. He has a lord beside him, and a mentor who made a transatlantic flight to help Rae get the answer he needs to keep his project going.

  And when he leaves that office later?

  Rae runs. Launches himself like a missile. At me.

  I catch him, and fuck anyone who looks twice at a moment of triumph so bright it has to be visible from Cornwall. Or from France, which is his next destination.

  We sit in the back of a cab next with London passing. I don’t see any of it. I only see him and I listen. “I have to do this. Buy supplies and get them to where they’re needed. But I’ve had an idea.”

  “About?”

  “About sharing the work.” He echoes what he must have heard Kirsty tell me. “It doesn’t all have to be down to me. And I think I know a way to⁠—”

  “Give your arms a rest?”

  Rae nods. “I’ll find a way to do it, and then I’ll come back. We can figure out how to make this work then.”

  That’s what we both want.

  He still rakes a lip with his teeth. “I don’t know how long it will take.”

  “Then I’ll come to see you.”

  Rae blinks. “You’d come to France?” He shakes his head at himself just as quickly and says, “Of course you would,” and we kiss for so long that I only break off when the cab reaches St. Pancras.

  I walk with him as far as I can into the station.

  We both stop, other Eurostar travellers parting around us like water while Rae asks, “You’ll let me know what happens?” He slides closer. Touches my forehead with his. “Tell me everything about your tests, Hayden. Pass or fail. Good news or bad. Easy or hard decisions. I want to hear it all.”

  “You will.” I’m done with holding anything in. I’m also done with holding anything back. “I’ll call you every night, yeah. Tell you a bedtime story. So fucking proud yours is going to be printed.” I also repeat what Sol told me. “The miles don’t have to matter.”

  His hand holds mine. Our fingers thread. He says, “Love you,” and then he’s gone, washed along by a current that carries him away from me, but that’s okay.

  I’ve waded through water for him before, haven’t I?

  When it comes to Rae, nothing can stop this giant.

  EPILOGUE

  Springtime at Glynn Harber

  HAYDEN

  Sound travels a long way in Glynn Harber’s valley. This group of hopeful student teachers can’t know that or they’d realise their voices also carry. I can hear some of their conversation from all the way across the clearing.

  “I can’t see how this fits the curriculum, can you?” one of them asks another. “What is he actually doing?”

  This candidate isn’t asking about me or about my mentor. His gaze is fixed on Asa, who has had the same growth spurt as every tree here now that winter is over. He’s flourishing, and I love to see it.

  I don’t love to hear this said about my star student.

  “Why don’t they make him pay attention? Both of the teachers are just letting him do whatever he wants.”

  Being called a teacher is still new. My training has barely started. I’m taking this journey slowly, which suits me now a Doomsday clock isn’t ticking towards a diagnosis that used to scare me shitless—that terrified me into making hay for loved ones, even if it wasn’t what they ever needed from me. These student teachers hoping to ace their interviews and to score a spot here aren’t aware I’m barely more qualified than them, but here is something I don’t need a certificate to know all the way down to my bone marrow: Being here for three whole seasons has taught me how every brain is different and that Asa’s brain is wired for motion.

  These observers also can’t know he’s worked hard all morning at sitting still and listening; at focussing on his work and not being a distraction to himself or to others in his classroom. This constant movement? It is vital to his self-regulation and is exactly what his brain needs to be ready for more classroom successes.

  My bruised brain?

  It needs the opposite to Asa’s giddy spinning, which Mitch mentions, and for once, his voice doesn’t boom out. Not because this is a secret. I’m done with keeping those from anybody. Mitch only murmurs instead of booming because he’s protective.

  About me.

  “You keep your arse parked exactly where it is.” He gets up from his crouch by my throne and lands a heavy hand on my shoulder to keep me seated and to drive his point home. Then he assigns a child to each prospective student teacher and comes back to me while the kids are busy showing off their knowledge. “Remind me why you’re taking it easy, big man.”

  This is what Mitch does every single time he sees me fight what has actually been my key to healing. And that is what I’ve done since a whirlwind arrived in Cornwall at the end of last summer to draw me with bowed broad shoulders and burrs in my beard. I’ve had time to recover lately after taking a long and honest look at what Rae’s storybook mirror showed me. Now I get honest right in front of someone I used to hide from. “I’m taking it slow because Rae is coming home for the ceremony tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow.

  Part of me is beyond excited. Another part of me is nervous. Not about seeing Rae for the first time in over a month. I’ve got the collywobbles about planting a new time capsule with the whole school and some special guests watching.

  I didn’t understand why Luke made organising this special event my job until I’d spent the winter collecting memories from each student and teacher at Glynn Harber to go inside it. Luke selected me as captain of the time-capsule project to weave me into the rest of his school. I can put a name to every single face here now. They are all my people, and these student teachers Mitch checks in on before he returns to my throne will be lucky to join a team like it.

  His hand is heavy on my shoulder again as I admit, “I wanted to make sure everything was prepared. For the ceremony. And for Rae.”

  “Because?” Mitch rumbles even though he already knows this answer. We’ve all seen the news. Rae’s never-ending tide of kids shows no sign of stopping.

  “Because he needs a chance to recharge, you know? In a way that works the fastest for him because he won’t stay still for long. Which is why I went down to the headland last night to prep somewhere peaceful for him.” Mitch nods, so I guess he understands Asa isn’t alone in needing fresh air and space to decompress. Rae does as well. “I want him to have a good visit, and I don’t want to miss a moment of it.” Not when he’ll leave again just as quickly. “But last night, I tried to do too much after working all day, so I had to stop before I was finished.”

  “Why?” Mitch asks quietly. Again, we both know this answer, but Mitch joining the ranks of my best coaches means I can say this and still feel accepted.

  “Because injured brains need less stress and more rest. Need care, not extra pressure. I need to pace myself better than I used to.” I draw in a deep breath and make an honest self-assessment. “I’m good to go now. Thanks for coming to help, Mitch. It’s been a good session.”

  He backs away. “And it’s good to see how fast you’re learning.”

  I am learning. I had to after test results some people might see as disappointing. I’ll take having to make minor, if permanent, adaptations to my lifestyle over the other option. I’m lucky compared to so many other people, and I’m lucky I get to share what I love with these children, so you better believe I’ll pace myself for them too.

  Which is why I pay attention right now, like I did last night on Stefan and Marc’s pretty headland where the moonlight was bright enough to see my own hands shaking. It was a signal to stop preparing for Rae’s visit. To rest, and to take it easy instead of going hell for leather like my days were numbered. But my slower pace today doesn’t mean I’m not teaching, so I go ahead and give these interview candidates a demonstration. I use a football to do that, and the moment I spin it on a steady finger, I have all their attention.

  I also have Asa’s.

  He still moves, only now I’m the centre of his orbit as I show him how the world doesn’t only turn through each day, it gradually tilts through seasons as well, like a sunflower seeking brightness. “In springtime, our part of the world tilts closer to the sun. What are the trees covered in now, Asa?”

  “New leaves!”

  “And what do those new leaves need to keep growing?” I tap my lips like I’ve seen Charles doing to indicate he is thinking, and Asa goes still for the first time this morning. He also has an answer for me.

  “Leaves need light!” He looks up and points. “From the sun.” He spins again, but more slowly, which is his way of showing me he’s still thinking.

  One of those prospective trainee teachers must notice the difference. He asks why light is needed and is enthusiastic about Asa’s answer. “Wow! You already know about photosynthesis. How does it work here?”

  He listens to everything Asa has learned in this woodland, nodding along with his descriptions of chlorophyll and green leaves, and his enthusiasm about veins and roots and water. From oxygen to carbon dioxide and the atmosphere that surrounds us, Asa knows these woods and others like it are the lungs of the planet. He’s soaked up this learning for months and can now communicate it. Building on it is his next stage, and this smart teacher-to-be borrows my football to do it.

  He rolls it to Asa. “What else spins like our planet does around the sun?”

  I don’t mind giving up my throne for someone who tells a story and who uses actions to involve all the children. He demonstrates like Teo does at the football club we now run together, and this potential candidate can’t be much older than him. He also reminds me of Rae, because some people are born storytellers like him, and this candidate? He’s got the same energy that sparks question after question.

  Pretty soon, a solar system spins in this clearing where children play at being planets as Luke arrives to collect his interviewees.

  He stands to one side with me first and quietly asks, “How did they do?”

  I look around at my busy children. All the adults with them are engrossed now despite their early mutters. “They seem fine. But that one…” I tilt my head towards the new sun Asa orbits. “He’s a natural teacher.”

  “Who? Isaac? Oh, he isn’t here for a teaching spot. He applied for the school librarian vacancy. Bit of a risk. He hasn’t finished his degree yet.” He glances my way. “I made the wrong pick once already. I’m looking for an experienced librarian really, not someone unqualified. What do you think?”

  He’s asking me to help make a team selection. To pick who stays on the bench or who will get a shot here, and who the fuck would have ever guessed I’d get to do that?

  My throat is still thick when Luke leads them all away, the clearing emptying, although my work isn’t over. But pacing myself is my new thing, so I take a long break until the evening before I leave the school in my Land Rover and head to the farm to pick up from where I left off last night.

  Sheep scatter when I park near the headland. One follows me on a walk with a stunning sunset backdrop and bleats as if it agrees with the statement I practise making.

  “This can’t go on, Rae.”