A long line of people, men and women—some with kids and babies—stand in the late afternoon sun waiting to get in the doors.Ishmael stood there, too, last week. Just stood and waited. One thing he knows how to do. Took two hours to get to see the young woman who told him about his garden job. Missus Appolis is her name. Merinda Appolis.Only place now Ishmael can think of taking this child. Tell the social worker what her daddy’s doing to her and let the woman keep the kid and sort it out. That’s his plan.“Ishmael, I’m thirsty,” the girly says.“I know, I’m sorry. Just wait a little bit, okay?”The kid nods and sits still. A good kid.“What are we going to do, Ishmael?”“There’s a lady across there gonna help us,” he says.“She won’t take me back to my daddy?”“No.”“Promise?”“I promise,” Ishmael says, seeing a uniformed man locking the front doors.The people still outside slope off into the dust, wandering toward the taxis and the trains.Ishmael stands and takes the girly’s hand.
