Chapter 3: The Front Office
The administrative office smelled of floor wax, old paper, and industrial carpet cleaner. Through the frosted glass of the inner door, I could see the secretary, Mrs. Gable, already on the phone, her fingers tapping a slow, rhythmic tattoo against the edge of her beige desktop.
Harrison guided Lily toward a row of orange plastic chairs near the water cooler, but she didn't sit. She stood by the window, staring out at the parking lot where my disabled Silverado sat like an abandoned appliance, its nose tipped toward the curb.
"Sit down, Lily-bug," I said, my voice dropping an octave, trying to find the gentleness that seemed to have evaporated somewhere around dawn.
"I want to go home, Daddy," she whispered, her voice so thin I barely caught it over the hum of the wall-mounted air conditioner.
"You know we can't do that. You have to finish the project. The one for science."
"Mr. Miller," Harrison said, emerging from his office with a yellow manila folder in his hand. He didn't invite me into the inner room; he stayed right there by the counter, treating the neutral territory of the lobby as a barricade. "Can we talk for a second? Outside."
"I'm not leaving her," I said, my hand instinctively resting on the back of Lily's chair.
"Just by the door," Harrison said, his jaw tightening just enough to show he was running out of patience.
I stepped outside the glass double doors into the morning sun, the warmth hitting my face instantly. Across the yard, the playground was empty, the swings hanging motionless in the still air.
"Your daughter's attendance record has thirty-four absences this semester, Mark," Harrison began without preamble, keeping his voice low so it wouldn't carry back through the glass. "And when she is here, she hasn't been turning in work. Her teacher says she spends half the day staring at the door. Today... what happened out in that drop-off lane isn't an isolated incident, is it?"
"You don't know what we've been dealing with," I said, rubbing the back of my neck where the stubble felt rough against my palm. "Her mother hasn't called in three weeks. The bank sent another notice yesterday. I'm holding this together with duct tape and prayers."
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"Duct tape breaks," Harrison said. "And right now, Lily is the one paying the price for the tension. If you can't manage the drop-off without a physical struggle, we're going to have to involve the county social worker. You know that protocol as well as I do."
The word hung in the air between us like exhaust smoke—heavy, gray, and impossible to clear away.
