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The woman pulled the stroller parallel with the wall, then set down her purse and began rummaging through a beat-up brown diaper bag that she was holding against her hip. Her bobbed, dark brown hair reflected auburn in the sunlight and fell forward, obscuring her face except for a pair of wire-framed glasses with large lenses that peeked out between her locks. She wore scruffy clothes.
Annie returned her attention to her book, still watching the woman from the corner of her eye, not looking up until the woman said, “Shit!” The bag had fallen to the ground, its contents spilling everywhere.
The woman sat down on the wall and looked at the mess. Only the stroller separated them; the baby slept tucked under a light blue blanket.
“Here, let me help.” Annie set her open book down on the wall, spine up.
“It’s okay. It’s fine. I’m fine,” the woman said, shaking her head. She rubbed her hands on her jeans and half closed her eyes.
“How old is he?” Annie asked, nodding toward the baby as she crouched and started picking things up—a gold tube of lipstick, a tampon, a crumpled receipt.
And an identification badge with the woman’s picture attached to a lanyard. The woman hopped off the wall and snatched it away but not before Annie read her name and title.
Helen Everton, Adjunct Professor
Annie handed Helen Everton the items she’d picked up, forcing the woman to stop jamming things back into her bag. When she accepted them and everything was back inside, she gave it a good shake.
“Four months,” she finally said, reaching down to pick up her purse. “Almost five now.”
“He’s beautiful.” And it was true. The baby, light-skinned with a tuft of dark hair, was sleeping peacefully.
“Thanks,” she said. “He’s colicky as hell.”
Annie started to laugh and then caught herself. “He your first?”
“Third.” She shook her head, her hair swaying with the movement. “No. I mean, I have two of my own, but he’s a foster baby. I’ve only had him for six weeks, and we’re still getting used to one another.”
“Wow,” Annie said. “How old are your other two?”
Everton pushed up her glasses and rubbed at her face. She had no makeup on. She looked tired.
“Eight and ten.”
“So you have your hands full,” Annie glanced at the entrance to the building.
Everton smiled thinly, then hefted the purse onto her shoulder and picked up the diaper bag.
Sensing that Everton was about to extract herself from Annie’s invasive questions, she searched for something to latch onto. Just one small fact about Helen Everton that she could exploit for her own gain.
“I’m Annie, by the way,” she said. “Just so I’m not a complete stranger. At least you know my name.” She resisted the urge to stick out her hand, thinking Everton wouldn’t take it.
“Annie,” Everton repeated. “Thanks for your help.”
She started pushing the stroller toward the building. As much as Annie wanted to keep talking to her, she didn’t want to scare the woman off.
If they went into the building, they’d have to come out again.
They came out much sooner than Annie expected. She’d waited five minutes and then ran into the building to use the first-floor restroom, certain she’d have to sit for a couple hours, waitingfor Everton and the baby to emerge once more. But forty-five minutes later, Everton came out, holding the wailing baby and a bottle. The baby’s cheeks were bright red in the sunlight.
Annie had moved away from the retaining wall and was sitting on a patch of grass far enough away that the woman wouldn’t see her immediately when she came outside again. Sometimes an extra few seconds of observation made the difference between a successful contact and a failed one.
Everton was trying to soothe the child, but the cries were getting louder. Annie closed the book on her lap and squinted. After watching for a few moments, she put the book away, slung her bag onto her shoulder, and approached Everton.
“Hi again!”
Everton looked at her, her expression confused at first and then annoyed.
“Is he okay?” Annie asked.
