The lobby of the Oakhaven Childrens Home smelled of pine cleaner and boiled cabbage. Deirdre led me into a small office with two green vinyl chairs and a desk covered in beige folders.
“Sign the visitor registry first,” Deirdre said, pointing a black pen toward a heavy leather-bound book on the counter. “State law requires it before you enter the residential wing.”
I signed my name on the blue line, my hand feeling thick and clumsy.
“We have strict criteria, Mr. Miller,” she said, sitting down behind the desk. “We look at income, housing stability, and mental readiness. A single man of fifty-five is not our standard placement.”
“I understand,” I said.
“And the background check is thorough,” she added, her eyes fixing on mine. “We look at everything. Medical records, tax returns, personal history.”
“I have nothing to keep from you,” I said.
She tapped her glasses on the edge of the desk. “We will see. Let us walk down to the recreation room.”
The hallway was long and bright, lit by humming fluorescent tubes that cast a cold glare on the floor. At the end of the hall, a heavy door opened into a room filled with plastic chairs and low tables.
Three boys were throwing a red foam ball against the far wall, their shouts echoing off the high ceiling. Near the tall window, away from the noise, sat a girl in a small wheelchair with chrome wheels.
She was holding a pencil, her fingers pinched tight around the wood.
“That is Lily,” Deirdre whispered. “She is five. She has nerve damage in her legs from an accident three years ago.”
Lily did not look up when we entered. She kept her eyes on the paper in front of her, drawing dark, heavy circles.
A small stuffed owl was tucked beside her thigh in the seat.
