I kept it simple.
“Unit twelve.”
“Conducting welfare check at 417 Hawthorne Ridge.”
“Juvenile present.”
“Request backup non-emergency.”
Brenna’s eyes widened.
“Are they coming?”
“Another officer.”
“Is Dad in trouble?”
“I don’t know yet.”
She looked down.
“I don’t want him to be mad.”
That sentence told me more than she meant.
I said.
“You did nothing wrong.”
She nodded.
But I could tell she did not believe me.
I asked.
“What did you want to show me?”
Brenna pointed toward the hallway.
Then walked.
I followed.
The first room was hers.
At least technically.
A narrow bed.
Plain blanket.
No posters.
No dolls.
No books except school textbooks.
No stuffed animals.
One dresser.
One plastic bin.
On the wall above the bed was another list.
BRENNA SCHEDULE.
6:10 wake.
6:15 wash.
6:25 dress.
6:30 breakfast.
6:40 hair.
6:50 backpack.
7:00 sit quietly.
7:25 leave.
3:05 home.
3:10 snack.
3:15 homework.
4:15 reading.
5:00 chores.
5:40 bathroom.
6:00 dinner.
6:20 cleanup.
6:45 silent activity.
7:15 prepare bed.
7:30 lights out.
Every minute controlled.
I asked.
“What happens if something takes longer?”
Brenna looked at me.
