Chapter 18: Forty Suitcases

I ran from Mason's bedroom to the lobby in yesterday's jeans, with Mason behind me.

What I saw on the sidewalk outside the Greer Lakeside stopped me at the revolving door.

Forty children stood in a line along the curb.

They were in winter coats, and each had a suitcase or a duffel bag or a garbage bag with a knot in the top.

The Home's fifteen-passenger van idled at the curb.

The youngest was a girl of about six with a stuffed rabbit under her arm and her thumb in her mouth.

A television crew had set up a camera on a tripod at the end of the line.

In front of it, in her lilac blazer, Mrs. Lund held a handkerchief to her eye.

"These children have nowhere to go," she said to the reporter.

"A beneficiary of our own trust has frozen every account we have."

She dabbed again.

"We came to ask the man who chairs our board where he expects them to sleep."

She turned and saw me in the doorway.

"Joanna," she said, loudly enough for the microphone. "Thank God. Perhaps you can explain to them."

Every child looked at me.

For one second, my whole body wanted to do what it had always done.

I wanted to say, I'll fix it, I'm so sorry, don't cry, I'll pay for all of it.

Behind me, Mason stopped.

I felt him stop, and I heard him put his hands in his pockets.

He didn't say a word.

I took out my phone instead.

"Good morning," I said to the camera. "My name is Jo Pennock. I'm calling the bank."