Wishbone

By Elaine Burnes

It's 2004, the year same-sex marriage becomes legal in Massachusetts, the year the Red Sox break the curse, and the year everything changes for Meg Myers.

Meg is an animal control officer who doesn't much like people and doesn't believe wishes come true. She grew up in state care, bouncing between foster homes and her alcoholic mother. Left physically and emotionally scarred, she is guarded about her past and pessimistic about her future. So she focuses on her job and her dream of opening an animal shelter.
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Meg's world is rocked by three women: Pam and her foster daughter, Violet; Gina, twin to Meg's best friend Jeff; and Samantha, the vet who shares an uncomfortable past with Meg. Through her relationships with these women, Meg is forced to explore mother-daughter bonds, loss and grief, and what defines friendship and gender in her quest to find security and love for the first time in her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mindancer Press
• Release date: Jul 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201932589

Book preview

Chapter 1

HER BREATHING SETTLED into the regular rhythm of sleep, so I eased out from under the blanket, preserving the cocoon of warm air around her. I groped for my pants and shoes and crept quietly out of the room. Thick fog pressed against the windows, diffusing the orange glow from street lamps that lit my way. I began to shiver in just my T-shirt, so I dressed quickly and found my jacket in the living room, piled with hers by the door.

A blinking light caught my eye. Phone. That usually means paper and a pencil. After finding them, I paused. Already I’d forgotten her name. I’m not a love note kind of girl, but when a woman cries herself to sleep in your arms, it pulls at you. She’d said it wasn’t anything I’d done. In my experience, crying never helped. I doubted she wanted to be reminded of it, so I jotted simply, Had a great time. Take care, Meg.

I eased the door shut behind me and slipped down the stairs and out to my car. The clock in the dashboard glowed 3:13. The fog blurred the road in front of me, erasing landmarks and signs, so I wandered blindly through twisted streets until I recognized Route 9, the main roadway, and realized I’d been in Brookline. A little too close to work for comfort, but too late now.

Once the heat was blasting, I rolled down the window. I get claustrophobic at night and the fog didn’t help. A faint musk odor drifted into the car. Either a skunk far away or a fox closer. Night creatures, they prefer the dark.

I crossed the Riverway into Boston and took a right onto South Huntington. The quiet streets made the city feel like a small town until I spotted a homeless man pushing a grocery cart loaded with his life possessions. My headlights reflected back in two small bright disks. Raccoon maybe. A larger shadow slipped between garbage cans. Coyote?

I reached to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and smelled her, like she had marked me. Even my jacket carried her scent. As I maneuvered into a parking space, I tried to picture her beside me, a hand on my thigh. My friend Chaz had been on me to settle down. Why not? I was over thirty now and sober. Most women my age were looking for happily ever after. Then I laughed. Not everyone was marriage material. Everything I’d read in books or seen on TV about true love showed couples who had a lot in common. Maybe opposites attracted at first, but in the end, it was about finding someone who shared your hopes and dreams. After all, skunks mate with skunks and coyotes with coyotes. In my experience, love was elusive and masked by lies. If it existed at all.

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MY FIRST CALL Monday took me to Brookline Village, my favorite part of town, where unpretentious houses with small front yards brought an intimate scale to narrow streets. I pulled up to the curb in front of a gray colonial. A mockingbird sang its medley from a nearby rooftop. The morning light filtered bright and low through the bare branches of the maples along the sidewalk. I grabbed my equipment bag from the side compartment of my truck, pulled out my camera, and headed to the body lying on the grass near the driveway. My first photos were taken at a wide angle to show location and position, and then I moved closer and snapped details from head to toe.

You a p’lice officer?

I lowered my camera. A young girl stood on the sidewalk behind me. She was six or seven. Her blue eyes looked up at me from a field of freckles. Her strawberry blond curls parted into two braids, one starting to unravel because the elastic had come off the end.

I’m the animal control officer, I said, in my crisp, official voice.

"So you are an officer," she said.

Yes, ma’am.

Her budding detective skills were spot on. I wore a gun on a thick belt at my waist and dark blue pants. The only difference from my fellow officers was my jacket had Animal Control embroidered over the left breast. A Brookline Police baseball cap shaded my eyes, and my hair lay in a single braid down my back.

Violet.

A woman’s voice, from across the street. She appeared to be in her thirties. Her brown hair curled around her ears. Natural, not dyed. She wore jeans and a black North Face fleece jacket, the uniform of the middle class.

Let her do her work, hon, she said.

Violet slumped in disappointment and shuffled toward her.

I returned my attention to the body and confirmed it was a male wild turkey by the bright red wattle at its throat and tuft of wiry feathers sticking out of its chest—the beard. I stretched on purple nitrile gloves then traced a narrow line of broken feathers along the bird’s back, near the neck. This didn’t look like roadkill. Could be from a golf club. I let out a disgusted sigh. Who would do this?

I rummaged in my bag and found a tape measure and notepad and wrote down the width of the fracture line and its length. Gingerly, I poked through the iridescent bronze feathers, searching for wounds. There wasn’t any blood, the head wasn’t bashed, but the angle of the neck could indicate a fracture. I examined each wing for further signs of injury.

Across the street, Violet and the woman watched. Midday of midweek and most people were at work. Most kids in school. I flipped back through my notebook and turned to the woman. Are you the one who called? Pam Robbins?

She nodded. I pulled off my gloves and stepped across the quiet street. Must be nice to have the luxury to be a stay-at-home mom. Did you see what happened?

’Fraid not, she said. Violet found it when she came out to get the paper.

No school today? I had to ask. As a public safety employee, I was required to report any sign of child abuse or neglect.

Pam and Violet looked at each other. Violet’s face fell.

It’s okay, Pam said. You can tell her.

Violet stared at the ground. I got ’spended, she said so quietly I almost didn’t hear her.

Sorry to hear that, I said. What seven-year-old gets suspended? Then I recalled how many times I had at her age. The last thing this kid needed was more humiliation, so I turned my attention back to the case. I need some information for my report. I flipped my notebook to a fresh page. What time did you discover the bird?

Pam shoved her hands in her jacket pockets. I don’t know. A couple of hours ago? Look, I thought you’d just take it away.

I stopped writing. I will, but if I find the bird did not die of natural causes, killing a wild turkey is illegal.

Well, I’m not sorry. They’ve been driving us crazy, she said.

How so?

Making a god awful racket, and they chase us. She gestured toward the house behind me, where I’d found the bird. Mr. Fielding, there, couldn’t get into his car the other morning, this big tom was attacking him.

I made a note to speak to Mr. Fielding.

Violet tugged on her mother’s hand. "Pa-am, she said, her voice high and whiney, is Lee coming home tonight?"

I almost did a double take, a kid calling her mother by her first name. Was she her mother? Maybe a sitter.

A pained expression crossed Pam’s face. We’ll talk about this later, honey. I’m talking to the officer right now. Her tense tone made me think this wasn’t the first time she’d dealt with this question.

Meg, I said.

Pam looked at me, puzzled. Sorry?

My name’s Meg. You can call me that, if you like. I didn’t know why I blurted it out.

Violet pulled on Pam’s hand again. "Can we go inside?" she whined.

Pam looked at her sternly. I’m talking to the offi—to Meg, here.

Violet’s expression darkened into one I recognized. The first shot fired in the battle for control. I offered a distraction. Want to help me? The kid froze, suddenly shy. She stopped tugging Pam’s hand. It might be too gross, I added.

Her face brightened. Nothing’s too gross! She looked up at Pam. Can I?

Pam’s face relaxed. I guess. She turned to me. You sure?

Yeah. C’mon, I said to Violet. You can hold the bag for me. I held out my hand, but she didn’t move.

You come too, she said to Pam, her shyness returning.

Together we went to my truck, and I got a heavy cloth bag from the back. Then I pulled another pair of gloves from my pocket.

Violet gloves for Violet, I said.

She giggled and tried to put them on. The stretchy material resisted her efforts, so I reached to help.

I can do it, she insisted, pulling away from me. She managed to get one on, with her five fingers in four of the glove’s. The other one was impossible.

Try this, I said and demonstrated by putting my glove back on, spreading my fingers to get them into the proper slots. Violet continued to struggle, so I waited.

I need help, she said finally. Pam reached for her, but Violet swung toward me. You.

I stretched on the glove and sorted the fingers. They were too big, but Violet smiled proudly, flapping the half-empty fingers. All set!

I handed her the bag and showed her how to hold it open while I picked up the large bird and carefully placed it inside. The head flopped. Violet flinched once but held the bag steady.

Why’d it die? she asked, peering inside.

I didn’t mention my theory. I don’t know, but I’ll try to find out. I took the bag from her and pulled the string tight. Nice job. Thanks, helper.

Violet beamed. I opened the back of my truck and she overcame the final hurdle to her shyness. Can I see inside? I took a step aside to let her.

Not today, Violet, Pam said. Give Meg the gloves and go on back to the house now.

Awww, Violet said. She didn’t move.

"That’s one," Pam said, her voice stern. They shared a stare, then Violet pulled off the gloves, handed them to me, and repeated her passive-aggressive shuffle across the street.

Can’t let a day off from school be more fun than being there, Pam said. You understand.

Sure, I said. But one?

If I get to three, she gets a consequence. She hates those. It’s a way to avoid power struggles. She gets to decide whether to behave or not.

I closed the back of the truck and decided to do a little fishing. While the kid didn’t seem like a sociopath, you never knew, and she’d already been in trouble. Does Violet like animals?

She didn’t do this.

That Pam guessed where I was headed so quickly surprised me. Okay, I said. Let me know if you hear or see anything.

Pam followed Violet across the street, and I went up to Mr. Fielding’s front door. No one answered the bell. I’d look up his number and give him a call later. First I had a delivery to make.

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I TURNED NORTH on Harvard Street toward Coolidge Corner and drove to Doc Paulson’s, the vet contracted to work with the town. His first name was Dirk, but his generation didn’t believe in first names. His generation should have been retired by now, but he’d once mentioned that the Paulson nest egg took a beating when the tech bubble burst in 2000, so he’d been hanging on. At this point I was counting the days till he retired and I could corral a younger vet into the relatively thankless job of being at the town’s beck and call. I pulled into the alley behind his building, grabbed my goodie bag, and walked around to the front door.

Mrs. Paulson looked up from behind the counter, her reading glasses balanced on the tip of her narrow nose, gray eyes the color of her hair. She glanced at my bag then went back to filling out a carbon-copy receipt for the woman waiting, cat carrier by her feet. A computer sat off to the side gathering dust.

She finished with the woman and turned her attention to me. What can we do for you today, Officer Myers.

I hefted the bag onto the counter. Could I get a necropsy of this—it’s a wild turkey.

Is it bloody? she asked with a grimace.

I shook my head. Nope. Just bludgeoned.

She jotted down the details on her receipt pad and ripped off the top copy for me.

If he could expedite this, I’d sure appreciate it, I said. There might be charges involved.

She avoided eye contact, missing my impatient scowl. We’ll see. He’s a busy man, you know.

I resisted the urge to mention the empty waiting room. Anything would help.

We’ll do what we can. Now she chose to smile pleasantly. You have a nice day.

I thanked her, folded the receipt, and stuck it in my pocket. I’d given up trying to get them to use the computer and the no longer newfangled technology of e-mail.

Officer Myers. Doc Paulson approached, holding a file folder. He passed it off to his wife then leaned against the counter, his white coat starched and spotless. I pictured Mrs. Paulson ironing it every morning. His thinning white hair was combed carefully back. Dark, thick eyebrows sheltered pale blue eyes. I could see that he might have been quite handsome in his youth. Heck, he wasn’t bad looking for an old guy. And to what do I owe the honor of your presence today? He loved formalities.

Dropping off a turkey. I nodded toward the bundle on the counter.

It’s March, not November, but thank you anyway. He chuckled weakly then cleared his throat. Do you have a minute?

I checked my watch. A few. I want to stop by Town Hall before lunch.

Ah, would that be about the shelter? You’re like a dog with a bone on that. He chuckled again. This was two attempts at jokes. What was going on?

He gestured toward his office.

I thought it wouldn’t hurt if the powers that be saw my continuing interest, I said.

You think that will get it a favorable vote?

Can’t hurt. Nothing else has worked, but the economy’s getting better, so I’m optimistic it’ll pass this year.

He eased into his chair and leaned back. Well, apropos of the shelter, I wanted you to know that I’ve decided to sell my practice.

My breath stilled. This could be good news. Very good news. But with no shelter to replace his basement, I wasn’t sure how to react. I doubted he wanted me to jump up and go Yippee! So I aimed for a measured approach. I suppose that’s not unexpected. Congratulations. What are your plans?

Oh, a little more golf, a lot more traveling. He glanced toward the door to the reception area, where his wife slaved away, possibly dreaming of a cruise to nowhere.

What’s your time frame? He was under contract until the fiscal year ended.

Not before July, but with luck perhaps we can begin a transition before then.

I don’t have anywhere else to put the dogs. He had four at the moment, in various stages of the process—from still looking for their owners to almost ready for adoption.

I understand. I’ve been talking to Doctor Reed about taking over my clients. She might be able to take the dogs too, but I didn’t want to ask her before checking with you.

I’m not familiar with Doctor Reed.

She’s new. The Doctor Sam clinic in the Village. Samantha Reed. Been here maybe a year or two. Young, I think she could use the business. Maybe even take over the town contract. But that’s up to you, of course.

Of course. The name rang a bell. I’d seen the sign, but hadn’t met her yet.

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ON MY WAY back to police headquarters, I indulged my fantasy of a stand-alone animal shelter. Gone were the days of dogcatchers and dog pounds that were no better than death row. Even Doc Paulson had to be convinced that the strays I brought in did not need to be killed. Sometimes, yes, an animal was too sick, injured, or dangerous for rehabilitation, but I’d made great strides in getting lost pets reunited with their owners or adopted out to new ones. Still, there was much more I wanted to do.

My fantasy shelter would be airy and bright. There’d be a large fenced area where dogs could play and be worked with. Cats would have a big room with lots of stuff to climb on and places to hide. Ever since I figured out I have a way with animals, I’ve wanted to work with them.

I parked my truck in the police lot, crossed the street to Town Hall, and stopped by the town clerk’s office. Ana Velez was my eyes and ears into the political process. She would know whether a public hearing was scheduled yet for the capital budget that would include the shelter.

I waited at the counter while she finished helping a young man fill out a form. She glanced my way, smiled, and motioned me over.

Any word yet? I asked.

Looks like next month.

Next month? I whined.

Don’t worry. That’s plenty of time before town meeting in June. The soft lilt of her native Puerto Rico always made bad news sound better.

I just worry they’ll run out of money if they wait too long.

Police, fire, and schools come first. Not that the order says anything about our priorities. She winked.

This is a public safety priority.

But it’s not a police priority. Get used to it. Human services and environmental health. That’s where your best chance lies. Plus, you’re talking big bucks here, starting a shelter from scratch. It might need a special appropriation, which means more hoops to jump through. So be a good girl and be patient.

Only you could get away with a crack like that.

You want Mike Decker in charge of your shelter?

My boss? Hell no. I bowed to her superior wisdom.

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SINCE IT WAS almost noon, I stopped in at Danny’s Sub Shop to pick up a sandwich before hitting the desk and paperwork. Just my luck, Captain Mike Decker stood in line. He was easily identifiable from the back—built like a small linebacker with beefy arms, muscled legs, and a Marine haircut accentuating his bulldog neck.

Sir, I greeted him.

Myers, he returned. Where’ve you been?

Early in my career, his tone was more, "where the hell have you been, but he’d progressed to idle curiosity. Decker was a cop’s cop and believed the duties of animal control were best left to civilians. When’s the last time a dog robbed a bank," he used to complain. The turning point came with a call to a house fire, where he’d found fighting dogs in the basement. Their condition so sickened him that he’d welcomed my expertise in handling the case.

I told him about the turkey. He humphed a response then rocked from heel to toe. He pretended to study the menu above the counter, like he’d never been there before or ordered anything other than an Italian with everything. The line moved, he got his sub and left without waiting for me.

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MY OFFICE IN the basement at headquarters used to be storage for my equipment. My rookie year, I’d retreated there when the hazing got to me. Who wants to find a dead rat in her drawer? Eventually, I got one of the janitors to help me move an old desk in. When I came back from vacation, someone had stenciled Animal Control on the frosted glass of the door, installed a phone, and hooked up my computer. Rather than be pissed, I was glad.

I flipped on the overhead light because only when the sun was in just the right spot at certain times of the year did any light come through my one grimy window set high in the wall. Under it, dog crates and Hav-a-Heart traps were neatly stacked and ropes and snares hung from hooks. My desk sat in the middle of my tiny torture chamber, as the friendlier officers called it. A couple of file cabinets and folded tables filled the rest of the space. There was no room for artwork or other amenities, even if I’d been inclined to decorate. I wasn’t used to being in one place long enough to nest.

I wrote down a couple of phone messages for follow up after lunch and settled down with my notebook and switched on the computer.

Just as I finished eating and was about to head out on patrol, my phone rang.

Animal Control, I said, reaching for my log book and a pen.

Meggy?

A reflex of dread shot through me. Yes, Rosie. I’m the only animal control officer here. Who else would it be? She didn’t know my voice?

You shouldn’t call me that. I’m still your mother.

No, you’re not. "You shouldn’t call me Meggy. I’m a grown woman. What can I do for you, Mom." I could be as passive-aggressive as she could.

Why do you always assume I want something from you?

Because you do, usually money.

Can’t I just call you to chat?

I’m working. You can chat in the evening, when I’m home. When you’ll be too drunk.

I thought maybe you’d come by this weekend.

So she did want something. But did she mean the upcoming weekend or the one just past? Then it dawned on me. Oh yeah, happy birthday, Rosie. It had been Saturday.

It wasn’t very happy.

Why?

My daughter didn’t celebrate it with me.

Do you know how many birthdays of mine you’ve missed?

I couldn’t help that and you need to stop holding it against me.

I’ll come over after work. If you’re sober, I’ll take you to dinner. I doubted she’d hold to the deal.

You treat me like a child. She started to cry. She must have been drunk, or still drunk from the night before. Last week, last year.

Rosie, I gotta go. I’ll see you later. I hung up. She was the main reason I still saw Charlotte occasionally for a mental health tune up.

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GRATEFUL TO GO on patrol and get out of the office, I grabbed my keys and headed to my truck. I ran through my inventory of equipment and supplies then slid behind the wheel. With no specific calls to answer, I drove through town, stopping at playgrounds to check for dog poop that could ruin a little kid’s trip down a slide or leap off a swing. Then I stopped by Avery Park in the town’s northeast corner. This playground was strictly for dogs and served many purposes. It gave people a place to let Fido off leash safely and therefore reduced tension in the neighborhoods from bored, barking dogs. It also let me see a lot of dogs at once.

I stood by the fence, looked over the animals, and chatted with the owners coming and going—which helped because they got to know me. I made sure the dogs all had license tags and were happy and healthy. I also watched the owners. I could almost predict which ones might turn up in my log book down the road by the way they handled their puppy.

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AS MY SHIFT ended, I drove to my mother’s place in Somerville. The trip from Brookline, at rush hour, across the Charles River, surpassed annoying. Traffic crawled, giving me time to think.

Rosie had been eighteen when she had me. Same age as me when I first kissed a girl. All parents have two lives—before you and after you. I didn’t know much about either of my mother’s. When I was two, she drove drunk with me in the car and ran a stop sign in front of a police officer. I only knew what Gran told me later, Your mommy did something bad, something dangerous, and you need to live with me. That was what I heard. I believed it had to do with me, because if I hadn’t been in the car, it wouldn’t have been as bad. For too long I believed that all the bad things in my mother’s life began when I came along.

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I RANG ROSIE’S bell several times with no response. Unfortunately, she’d given me a key. Before I opened her door, I took some deep breaths then held it until I was inside. My eyes adjusted to the dim light while I exhaled slowly. Then I breathed through my mouth a few times to delay the thick, dank cigarette smoke and mold penetrating my sinuses. Just a little trick I’d developed to keep from triggering a flashback.

Her apartment was bigger than mine. She had a bedroom, living room, and kitchen. I had a one-room studio. She was in subsidized housing. I paid my way. When welfare reform meant she got kicked off the dole, she went on disability. She was always vague on what qualified her for it. Ten years ago she’d ended up in the hospital with a bleeding ulcer. That had been my first trial as an adult, that moment when parent becomes child, and child becomes parent. Except she’d never been much of a parent. Since then, she often complained of various maladies, usually mimicking the latest fad ailment.

The apartment was quiet, the only light came from the streetlights and the only sound a TV from next door. I hoped she’d gone out and forgotten about me. No such luck. I found her passed out on her bed, snoring softly. I didn’t consider waking her. First, it would be futile, and second, why, when we’d only fight.

I switched on the light in the small galley kitchen and cockroaches scurried. The sink overflowed with dirty dishes. I opened the window, turned on the radio, and started cleaning. After an hour, the place looked halfway to half decent. The rooms had cooled off and smelled somewhat better, so I closed the window.

I flipped through the mail on her desk, pulled out some utility bills, and tucked them in my pocket. I used to pay her rent too, but Charlotte worried I was enabling my mother. I never gave her money, she’d only spend it on booze, but Rosie had fought me about her bills, told me to mind my own business. I had a vested interest in keeping her off the streets, though, so occasionally I snuck them. There’s a saying, keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Losing track of Rosie worried me more than what she might do to me. I didn’t want the next sleeping homeless person I nudged to be her.

I found a piece of paper and a pencil and wrote, Happy Birthday, Mom. I turned out the lights, but instead of leaving, went into her bedroom, tossed a pile of clothes off the chair, and sat down. In the dark, I could just make out her sharp features and stringy blond hair. No amount of poverty kept Rosie from her bleach. She slept peacefully. Although thin like me, she looked far older than her fifty years. Her fiftieth birthday. The big 5-0. Hell of a celebration, Rosie. An empty bottle of Wild Turkey lay on the floor.

I had lived with Gran till I was four then she had a stroke and dropped dead. When she hadn’t picked me up from day care, they called around and found out she’d been taken to the hospital from her job as a cashier at Kmart. When they couldn’t reach my mother, they called social services. We’ve been in and out of each other’s lives ever since.

All my life, all I’d wanted was a family. Someone I could count on, who would be there for me.

Rosie stirred on the bed and rolled over. Meggy? Her voice a sad, timid squeak.

I didn’t say anything or move but waited for her to settle and resume snoring. Then I left.

Chapter 2

I HELD THE book so the children sitting on the floor in front of me could see the picture.

Grandfather gripped the hawk gently but firmly. I lowered my voice, ‘Do you want to say good-bye?’ he asked, then raised it for the small child. ‘Good-bye, Mr. Hawk,’ Holly said. Grandfather swung his arms up and released the bird that flew on strong, healed wings toward the woods. ‘I’ll miss you, my friend,’ she called out. Grandfather smiled and took her hand. I closed the book. The end.

The kids sat still and quiet.

That’s sad, four-year-old Matthew said.

It is, I said, but she’ll always know she helped him go home.

Read it again, little Alisha called out.

I’m afraid it’s time for Officer Meg to leave, Helen Barton said from the doorway.

I said good-bye to the kids and stepped from the brightly decorated playroom into the dreary waiting area. Plastic chairs lined a beige wall dotted with posters promoting government services such as food stamps, WIC, and MassHealth. The Department of Social Services was not into interior decorating. I avoided eye contact with the men and women who sat in the chairs, dejected and disheveled. They might be parents, here for a weekly supervised visit with their children who had been removed for any number of reasons, none of them good. Or they might be foster parents, waiting for the birth parent to finish a visit.

DSS workers, birth parents, and foster parents presented a false front of civility, all working for the best interests of the children. A joke. The children’s emotions were plainly visible. Some laughed for joy when they saw their birth parent, others cried or slipped into a shell of silence they hoped would protect them from the pain, but it didn’t. Nothing could.

So I avoided the stares of the adults and focused on the children. Adults fear a uniform, little kids are fascinated by it. Almost everyone was relieved to find out I was only an animal control officer. Even the DSS workers. They got it from all sides—the families, their supervisors, the press, the legislature. Everyone but the public, most of whom knew almost nothing about what went on within these walls unless something catastrophic happened and a child died. It would be like never knowing about air travel except for the crashes. They don’t happen often, but when they do . . .

I always left a little more depressed than when I arrived. I waved good-bye to Brenda, the receptionist, barely visible behind bullet-proof glass. A woman was leaving at the same time, so I held the door for her. Unlike the others, she made eye contact. She seemed familiar.

Meg? she asked.

My heart hammered a couple of panicked beats. My brain clicked like a computer, searching for her in my memory banks. Did I pick her up at Ezri? She wore a fleece jacket and jeans. Ah.

Wild turkey? I asked. This was the last place I expected to run into her.

Pam smiled and reintroduced herself as we made our way down the empty hallway to the main door. What brings you here? She eyed my uniform. "I know the kids can get wild, but surely this isn’t part of your job."

People usually didn’t talk about why they