Anne’s is the next evening after work. I call him from the train on the way out to see Joan, whom I’ve been visiting once a month since Patrick died.“But, babe, your schedule is already packed,” he says, sounding perplexed after I fill him in on Andrew’s request and the paperwork I filled out and faxed back to him this afternoon. “You sure this is something you want to take on?”“I think I can move some things around and volunteer one evening a week.” “Kate, I hate to say it, but are you sure you didn’t fall for a recruiting scam or something?” His tone is gentle and concerned, which makes me feel annoyed. “It sounds almost like this St. Anne’s place sends out people like this Andrew guy to sign up volunteers like you.”“No, it wasn’t like that at all!” I retort. I hate it when he talks to me like I’m a child, even though I know he means well. “What Andrew was saying made sense. I have a skill that can help these kids.”“Okay.” He draws the word out and pauses.
