“She left her winter coat,” I said, my voice sounding thin against the hum of the fluorescent lights.
Frank tapped the corner of the white form on his desk. He kept his notebook open, even though he had already stopped writing.
“She is nineteen, Mrs. Miller,” Frank said.
“Nineteen is still a child when she leaves without her shoes,” I said.
“She is an adult, ma’am, and there is only so much we can do.”
He handed me the clipboard, pointing to the blank space at the bottom of the page. The paper was cold.
“Most of the time, they just want some space,” Frank said, his voice flat but not unkind. “They go to a friend’s apartment in Chicago, or they get a bus ticket. By Tuesday, they call home because they need rent money.”
“Sarah does not have rent money,” I said.
He did not argue. He only watched as I wrote her full name, Sarah Miller, in the first box.
“We will enter her description into the state database,” Frank said, leaning back in his squeaking chair. “But if she walked out on her own feet, it is not a crime.”
