At home, my mother scrubbed her hands until her knuckles cracked. She always asked, “Did you have a good day?” I always lied. “It was fine.” She let out a tired breath, like she was exhaling a week’s worth of fear, and she smiled. I carried those lies like stones in my pockets.

Something changed in tenth grade. It began with numbers on a page. I discovered the pleasure of solving equations that did not judge me. Math cared only for the right answer. Physics did not whisper behind my back. I stayed after class so frequently that the janitors learned my name.

One autumn afternoon, while I worked through problems two chapters ahead, a voice startled me. “Those integrals are meant for next semester.” I looked up. A man with graying hair and round glasses stood over my desk. His tie was crooked and his shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows. “I am Mr. Pembry,” he said, offering a hand. “You can call me Colin if you like, but not during class.” He tilted his head, reviewing my work. “Did someone teach you this, or did you teach yourself?”