The walls were lined with college pennants.
Not one poster for apprenticeships.
Not one for logistics.
Not one for electrical training or diesel repair or nursing aide certification or anything else that keeps a place running while everybody else is talking about potential.
Emma saw me looking.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I know.”
Outside, the sky had turned that washed-out gray you get before rain.
Parents were gathering their kids.
Engines turned over.
Back doors slammed.
And standing near a silver sedan was the woman who had whispered about me.
She was dressed like the weather should have asked permission before touching her.
Neat coat.
Soft leather purse.
Hair that did not move, even in wind.
Beside her stood the woman from the private clinic.
Tablet tucked under one arm.
They looked over when Emma and I came down the steps.
The whispering mother smiled first.
That kind of smile.
Smooth.
Thin.
Not friendly.
“Ms. Brooks,” she said. “That was certainly emotional.”
I nodded once.
“I’ve been accused of worse.”
She gave a small laugh, like I was supposed to enjoy being handled.
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