Ms. Tremblay was about forty years old and looked like a typical single mother. She had short hair, a beige turtleneck sweater, an olive complexion; a woman in a hurry who did a slapdash job of putting on her makeup without taking care of her skin. At the back of her office was a window that overlooked the nearby gym. The social worker, for this was her title, was interested in domestic violence, family disputes, and at-risk minors. Her role of listening to and supporting victims went as far as making care orders and organizing placements. Every day, she consulted police reports filed the day before and took note of any cases that fell within her jurisdiction. “This morning I read an electronic copy of the report you filed on Friday. Considering the content, I decided to call you immediately. Would you like a coffee? I’ve just made one for myself.” A ceramic mug with a penguin on it landed in her hands. “If you want sugar…”
