Then I saw her.
She was parked in her chair by the ice machine. Pink jacket. One shoe missing. A woman in a state-issued polo was on the phone next to her, and there was a white van idling by the curb with the words FOSTER PLACEMENT stenciled on the side.
The little girl was staring at me. Not scared. Studying me. Like she was measuring something.
I nodded at her the way you nod at a stranger’s kid. Polite. Distant. Not my business.
She wheeled herself right over to me.
Her mom had died three days ago, she told me, matter of fact, like she was reporting the weather. Car accident. She didn’t have any grandparents. She didn’t have anyone.
The social worker was going to take her to a group home tonight because no family had come forward.
I didn’t know what to say. I’m 58 years old, I live alone above a machine shop, and I don’t know the first thing about kids.
