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sat alone as usual, but alert and ready to help if asked.
    Maria’s case really kept me in a low state of unease. Raped and beaten as a young teen, her face slashed, she was now twenty-one and had little life beyond her home and these school walls. A couple of years ago, I had taken her out once for smoothies, just the two of us. Although she’d been amenable to the outing, she’d quickly become a bundle of nerves and tightly held fear when a group of loud, rowdy boys entered the diner. It would take a long time for those psychological scars to heal, which saddened me.
    Upon seeing me, Sally and Tommy came loping over, and as usual, I squeezed them in a huge hug until they laughed and pushed away.
    “Angie, is it Monday?” Tommy asked, his round face screwing up in a thoughtful moue.
    “Nope, just passing through. It’s almost time for you guys to go home anyway,” I replied, taking Tommy’s hand and pulling him along. I reached for Sally’s, but she was experiencing a fit of jealousy and pulled away. I lurched to one side and grabbed the eight-year-old around her chubby waist, lifting her easily. That caused a harsh bark of laughter and diminishing giggles from her. I pulled Tommy along and carried Sally like a sack of potatoes as I approached Melissa who stood with her arms folded across her chest, watching my antics with a stern frown.
    “Hey, ’Lissa,” I said, amused by her obvious disapproval.
    “Now, Angie,” she began, freeing Sally and placing her feet back on the floor. “You know we do not manhandle the children.”
    Melissa Godwin, as her name subtly implied, was God’s messenger to the world. Speaking in a soft but firm southern drawl, her word was law. I often brazenly flew in the face of that godliness. We had a good working relationship, nevertheless, not that it mattered so much. She taught and handled everything at the center on the days I helped Mama at the restaurant, and I worked here on her church volunteer days.
    Sally sidled next to me and insinuated her little hand into mine, as if signifying her approval of our play. I squeezed her hand gently, eliciting a new giggle. Tommy wandered back to the activities table.
    Melissa pursed her lips. “Why are you here today?” she asked.
    “Just checking in. I was in the neighborhood.”
    “Well, that woman from the courthouse called again this morning. I don’t know what to tell her,” she added emphatically.
    I groaned inwardly. I should have known. Just because it wasn’t written in a phone memo didn’t mean there was no bad news.
    Two weeks ago, snooty Frankee Howell had come by with her camera and her following of good old boy lackeys. Seems the Port Isabel Town Council had decided that SPICEY, a mere medical open enrollment charter, wasn’t nearly as important as the proposed Port Isabel Marina that would span all three undeveloped fingers of land where they stretched into the bay. Unfortunately, as owners of the property, the town council had every right to raze the old, creaky building and replace it with the slick, ultra-modern clubhouse they’d shown me in their artist renderings. They wanted us out as quickly as possible.
    “There is nothing to tell her, ’Lissa. We’re not closing until we find a better location.”
    Melissa eyed me worriedly, so I apologetically released Sally’s hand and scooted her toward the clay piled next to her abandoned chair. Nervously, I moved to the table and began neatening the craft items, eventually lining up crayons by color.
    “Angie, honey, they are bound and determined to make this part of the new marina. This old building is going away. The sooner you realize that, the better.”
    I tried soothing my emotions by placing crayons in perfect rows, by size now as well as by color. I did not look at her. “And where are the kids supposed to go?” I countered angrily. “We can’t afford anywhere else.”
    Melissa didn’t answer right away. A strained silence fell between us. Emma