“What if I fail?” I asked quietly. “I’m 35, Bubbles. I’ll be in class with kids who were born the year I graduated.”
She smiled.
Her best smile.
The one that reminded me of Saturday mornings and cartoons.
“Then we’ll figure it out,” she said. “The way you always did.”
She squeezed my hands.
Then stood up.
The officers said their goodbyes shortly after. The taller one shook my hand at the door.
“Good luck, sir.”
He meant it.
I stood there watching their cruiser disappear down the street.
And stayed in the doorway long after the taillights were gone.
Three weeks later, I drove to the university for orientation.
I was nervous.
I looked around the parking lot and realized I was at least a decade older than almost everyone there.
My boots felt out of place.
