At the records office, Nina asked the young clerk for older budgets. He hesitated, then pulled dusty folders from the back. “No one wants these,” he muttered. Dust puffed as she opened them. Inside, the same children’s case numbers appeared across multiple years, always labelled “temporary.” Review dates walked forward in little steps, like someone dragging their feet.
She scanned a few pages to her editor. His answer came fast. “If this is a pattern, it is big. But we need more than numbers and a homeless woman’s memory. Legal will demand someone on record, or a document that actually says they are doing this on purpose.” Nina stared at the screen. She had a direction, but not the spine.