light switch he passed. At the end of the hall, he climbed the stairs and reversed direction in the upstairs hall until he reached the AFCD - Aid to Families with Dependent Children - unit and stepped inside.
        He was grateful to be at work, a welcome refuge from his personal woes, but when he assessed the paperwork before him, felt a black grief. He gazed out the window to the District Attorney’s office across the parking lot, mesmerized by how brightly it glowed in the morning sun. He sat still, barely breathing. This is going to be a rough day, he realized as he began leafing through the paperwork.
        Trisha Cathcart bustled into the room and chirped, “Good morning.”
        “Good morning!” he returned with unexpected enthusiasm, surprised by how grateful he was to see her. “How are you today, Trish?”
        She was mid-forties, salt-and-pepper hair, crinkly skin, and vacant eyes.
        “You look bright and cheerful this morning,” she said.
        “Do I?”
        “Yes.” She smiled her condescending smile. “Did you and your little wifey have a nice weekend together?”
        “Not really. I’ve had better.”
        “So have I,” she moaned. “Tim promised to take me to the Santa Barbara Symphony on Saturday, but when the time came, he said he didn’t want to go. He said, ‘I work all week and by the weekend I’m exhausted. I don’t want to pay to see some long-haired musicians on my only night off.’”
        “That’s a dirty trick,” Mike said, feeling genuine empathy.
        “So, I said to him, ‘Why didn’t you tell me before so I didn’t get my hopes up?’”
        “And what did he say to that?”
        “He said he didn’t tell me because he didn’t want to hear me moaning about it all week. So, I said if he didn’t want to hear me moan this week, he could give me the money he would have spent for the symphony and let me buy something for myself.”
        This was more conversation than Mike usually had with Trisha but today he was comforted by her energy. Then as others trudged into the room, all women, and phones began ringing and conversations springing up, he dug into work. He had a hundred-plus budgets to complete this week and three renewals. Soon he was lost in numbers, calculations, and welfare regulations.
        But he was rankled and preoccupied and had trouble focusing on work. At noon, he wandered up Santa Barbara Street and stopped at Alameda Park