Page 14 of Property of Quake

The sound of my legal name snaps me back to the conversation at hand. “Yeah?”

“Not that we’re not grateful for your presence,” Sister Beatrice begins. “But was there a reason you stopped by?”

“I, uh, yeah,” I stammer. “Lyric said you called about needing help.”

She smiles. “Yes, I did. Yesterday.”

“Right. I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner, but we were celebrating.”

“No need to apologize,” she assures me. “I simply meant that you could’ve called rather than come all the way here.”

“I was in the area,” I say with a shrug.

“Well, thank you, we appreciate it.”

I barely manage to contain a grimace, uncomfortable with the gratitude. If someone needs help, you show up to help them, and you definitely don’t fucking do it to hear ‘thank you’.

Before I can say just that, Sister Beatrice moves to sit in the chair behind her desk. She gestures to the seat across from her, but I don’t take it. Not only would it be rude when Sister Emiliani remains standing, but it would also put me in a vulnerable position. Standing allows me to stay alert and keeps my surroundings visible.

Sister Beatrice’s expression shifts to one of concern, and that gets my attention.

“You’ve arrived at a good time,” she states, folding her hands on top of her desk.

“Why’s that?” I ask, trying not to jump to conclusions.

The nuns exchange a look, and it’s the younger nun who answers. “The truth is, we’re struggling.”

Her voice is smooth, breathy, and more than a little arousing.

Pull it together, man. She’s a nun!

In an effort to compose myself, I stare out the window for a few seconds. Some of the kids are outside for recess. Two little boys are racing toward the swingset while a girl no more than twelve or thirteen leans against a tree with her nose in a book.

“How bad?” I finally ask.

The older nun sighs, and there’s a weight in the exhaled breath that I haven’t heard from her before.

“We’ve taken in six new placements in the last month,” she says.

I wish I could say the number surprises me, but it doesn’t. As long as humans exist, there will always be parents who don’t give two shits about their children and children who just need a place to lay their heads at night.

“More children means more expenses,” she says unnecessarily.

Sister Emiliani steps closer to me. “We’ve managed so far,” she says, pride in her tone. “But⁠—”

“There’s nothing left to manage,” I growl, unable to keep the disdain from my words.

“We’ve done the best we can,” Sister Emiliani says defensively.

I heave a sigh and face her, forcing my expression to soften. “I don’t fuckin’ doubt it.” Taking a deep breath, I ask, “What do you need?”

“To start, school supplies,” Sister Beatrice says.

“Backpacks, pencils, notebooks, calculators…” Sister Emiliani extends a finger with each new item she lists. “Most of the children come to us with little to no supplies. Some are able to continue in the school they’re enrolled in, but others are no longer in the right district, so we homeschool them here.”

“I’m aware,” I say, letting her know that she doesn’t have to explain. “How many children are you currently homeschooling?”

“Eight,” she replies. “It should be nine, but one of the newest arrivals is having a hard time acclimating.”