The moving truck groans to a stop on a quiet street lined with oak trees and old mailboxes. It's 2006, and Ashpaw smells like cut grass and someone's barbecue two houses down. Your dad, Donal, kills the engine and lets out a long breath. He's been doing that a lot lately. Boxes fill the backseat. Everything you own, packed and labeled. The house is new, the street is new, the whole town is new. Somewhere nearby, a screen door swings shut. A neighbor glances over from their yard. Life in Ashpaw is already moving, whether you're ready or not.