“Sir, I understand. But I don’t make the policies.”
“Then who does? Can I talk to them?”
“Sir…”
Grandma reached up and gently squeezed my wrist.
“It’s okay, Daniel.”
“It’s not okay, Grandma.”
“It’s okay,” she said again, quietly. And something in her voice made me stop.
She stood up. Slowly. One hand on the arm of the chair. She picked up her handbag. She tucked the yellow envelope under her arm. She straightened the front of her cardigan, which she always does when she’s about to do something important. She did it at my dad’s funeral. She did it at my wedding.
Then she looked down the hallway on the other side of the waiting room. A long hallway with a shiny floor and a row of numbered doors.
“Does Room 214 still have that little window overlooking the courtyard?” she asked.
Kayla blinked.
