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muddy
banks.  When she first moved, she thought Sam might go
swimming there, but after she found out how dirty it was—it only
escaped being labeled a Superfund site by a technicality—she would
never let him. 
    It made her sad, thinking about this, and
she felt like crying again.  What was it with her today? 
Her period was weeks away.  The interview.  She was
getting all worked up about a damn Martco interview.  She had
a degree in Psychology and she was getting worked up about
this.  She would not cry.  She would not.
    "Are you crying, Mommy?" Sam asked.
    "No," Carol said, sniffling.
    "Don't be sad.  I love you, Mommy."
    "Oh, I love you, too, sweetie.  We just
need to find somebody to watch you."
    "Um . . . I could watch myself."
    That got her to laugh.  "I don't think
you're quite old enough for that yet."
    "But I'd be good!  I'd—I'd just stay
inside and play with my Gameboy and read books and maybe do some
drawing.  I . . . I wouldn't even have any ice cream or
cookies!"
    "I know you wouldn't, honey.  It's just
that if Mommy left you alone, and other people found out about it,
some nice people would come and take you away from me."
    "Oh," he said, and fell silent.
    A few blocks later, she reached her
apartment complex, a drab two-story building the color of lima
beans.  It sat up on a little bluff, sheltered from the wind
by dense arborvitae and towering pines.  Driving up the steep
road, her tires squealing on wet asphalt, she realized she hadn't
tried Dora.  Dora, sweet old Dora with the trembling hands,
who wasn't working today.  After she parked, she pulled out
her cell phone and dialed Dora's number.   
    "Hello?" Dora answered.  Her voice was
hoarse. Not a good sign.
    "Hi, it's Carol."
    "Oh, Carol dear, how are you?" Under the
best of circumstances, Dora was hard to hear, but now Carol really
had to strain to understand her.
    "How am I?  How are you?  
You sound terrible."
    She coughed. "Oh, just a little flu. 
Nothing to worry about."
    Carol's heart sank.  "I'm sorry to
bother you."
    "Oh, don't be.  I'd invite you over for
tea and biscuits, but I certainly don't want you to get what I
have."
    "Well, I was just calling to say
hello.  Get better soon, okay?"
    "Of course, dearie.  I have to work
tomorrow."
    "Don't worry about that.  I'll schedule
you for extra hours if you need to make up for it.  Just take
care of yourself."
    "Yes, dearie.  Of course." 
    Carol knew that despite how badly Dora felt,
and no matter how often Carol would tell her to stay home, Dora
would still be there tomorrow.  When you were living off your
dead husband's measly pension and a couple hundred dollars from
Social Security, you didn't have a lot of choice.  Feeling
even more miserable, Carol clicked off the phone and watched rain
dribbling down her front window.
    "Am I gonna go to the nice old lady who
smells like candy, Mommy?" Sam asked.
    "No, dear."
    "Then where?"
    "I'm not sure."
    "Are we going to stay in the car?"
    "No, dear."  But she actually
considered it.  They could just sit there until the interview
was long gone, until the next day came and she had to start her
shift, until she was fired, until her rent was due and she was
eventually kicked out of the apartment, and then they'd be living
out of the car.  So they wouldn't have far to go. "I just need
to think, dear."
    "Okay," Sam said.  He was silent for a
moment.  "Um . . . can I go inside and watch cartoons? 
You can stay here."
    She sighed.  They got out of the car
and headed up the stone steps.  She didn't even bother opening
the umbrella.  What was the point?  The alcove at the top
had two doors, and hers was on the left.  The green and yellow
cardboard "Home Sweetss Home" sign, a Sam Kinnington original, was
tacked to the door.  Putting the key in her lock, she tried to
think of somebody she could trust.  Nancy was sure to be
working at the hospital.  David would be awkward.  If she
hadn't slept with him, maybe she