CHAPTER SIX B — THE GARDEN ROSTER
Mina brought a folder to my porch on Sunday evening.
The folder contained copies of volunteer schedules from the previous year, and several entries had been crossed out with a heavy black marker.
“I found these in my recycling bin,” she said.
“Somebody left them on top of a pizza box.”
“Why are you bringing them to me?” I asked.
“Because I don’t know what they mean.”
I kept my hands away from the folder.
“If they’re related to Northbridge, give them to Dana’s office or the residents’ advocate.”
Mina sat down hard on the porch chair.
“You keep telling me to give things to people I don’t know.”
“That’s because I can’t be the person who decides what these documents prove.”
“I understand your rules,
Rowan.”
She tapped the folder.
“I don’t understand how to protect the person who left them.”
That question was different.
We called Simone Reyes and asked whether a resident could deliver information without exposing themselves to Patricia.
Simone arranged for a meeting at a public library in another neighborhood, where the residents could choose whether to speak to an advocate.
She also warned us that people should not remove records belonging to their employer or residence without legal advice.
Mina listened carefully and agreed not to circulate photographs.
The next afternoon, she met Simone while I stayed home repairing the porch railing.
When Mina returned, her expression had changed.
“Those aren’t volunteer schedules,” she said.
“What are they?”
“They’re punishment schedules.”
She told me the advocate had identified recurring labels beside residents’ names,
including missed curfew, poor attitude, and refusal of community duty.
Some entries listed work assignments beside those labels.
One resident had been assigned to clean Patricia’s garage after questioning a curfew restriction.
Another had been sent to paint a fence after asking for a copy of her placement agreement.
Mina stared at the unfinished railing.
“I delivered food to those houses for two years,” she said.
“I thought they were learning to live independently.”
“They may still be learning,” I said.
“But the people in charge need to explain the assignments.”
Mina shook her head.
“I remember Patricia telling me that a young man named Samuel was lazy because he wouldn’t shovel her driveway.”
“Did you meet him?”
“Once.”
Her voice grew quiet.
“He had just finished an overnight shift.”
We sat on the porch until the streetlights came on.
Neither of us tried to turn the conversation into a speech.
There were specific people who needed specific answers, and the answers had to come from the people who had authority to require them.
CHAPTER SEVEN — THE WORKSHOP DOOR
On Saturday morning, Mina called me from the community workshop.
“You need to come down here,” she said.
“Why?”
“Kira’s outside, and Patricia won’t let her in.”
I walked the three blocks without my truck.
The workshop occupied a converted fire station with tall doors and a painted sign advertising free community training.
Kira stood on the sidewalk beside a young man with a black backpack.
Patricia blocked the entrance with two volunteers.
“You missed your assigned service shift,” she told Kira.
“I worked a double shift at the grocery store,” Kira said.
“Commitments matter.”
The young man beside her stepped forward.
“You said I could cover for her.”
“Theo, please don’t make this difficult.”
I stopped beside the group.
“What exactly is the service shift?” I asked.
Patricia turned so sharply that her brooch caught the sunlight.
“This is a private program.”
“The sign says community training.”
“Members have obligations.”
“Is attendance at your yard cleanup one of them?”
“You don’t understand how things work here.”
“Then explain it.”
Kira looked terrified.
I stepped away from her so nobody could mistake my presence for pressure.
Patricia pointed at the sidewalk.
“Leave this property.”
“I’m on the public sidewalk.”
“You are harassing volunteers.”
A gray-haired man emerged from inside the building carrying a box of safety glasses.
“Patricia,” he said quietly.
“The welding instructor is already here.”
“Then he can wait.”
The man looked at Kira.
“She paid for the certification test herself.”
Patricia stared at him.
“Graham, this is not your decision.”
“I’m the instructor,” he replied.
“And I won’t teach a class where attendance depends on somebody trimming your hedges.”
He placed the box on a bench and began removing his gloves.
Two other students walked out behind him.
The workshop’s front door remained open.
Patricia could close it, but she could not make everybody inside agree that it should be closed.
