Actual buckets.
These children deserve better.
And for one glorious moment, it looked like we were finally getting it.
Then the permits disappeared.
And after looking into it, I’m flummoxed.
See, they haven’t been denied.
Not approved.
Not rejected.
Just revoked.
Stalled.
Lost in bureaucratic limbo.
Meanwhile, donations started drying up to the point where it’s starting to look like the Savannah.
Pledges vanished.
People stopped returning calls.
And nobody can prove anything.
I can’t prove that ridiculous Joel Jonas, aka Mr. Grabby-hands, had anything to do with it.
But considering he left the Valentine's fundraiser with a busted nose and a grudge?
The timing feels suspicious.
Very suspicious.
“Perhaps we need a fresh perspective,” Sister Agnes says carefully.
My stomach drops.
Because I know exactly where this conversation is headed.
“Oh, no. He got to you too?”
The nun blinks.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You were about to.”
Her lips twitch.
Which means I'm right.
“Sister Agnes, with all due respect, no.”
“Mary—”
