Sara, a social worker of some eight years, hated this part. When the call had come yesterday from her supervisor that a voluntary pick up was needed at this apartment complex, she had practically cried. Not that she didn't mind helping someone transition their lives to what she truly believed to be a brighter future, but she hated it because of two things- firstly, she didn't like the method of transporting diminished folk away to governmental buildings; the container at her side, what was officially called Transportation Pods for Dignified Diminished Human Movement, amounted to little more than a couple of public bus seats glued to a container that Sara had faintest suspicion had once held rats. It was officially a transport apparatus, but, her liberal sensibilities informed her that it simply was a birdcage- they just didn't want to say it out loud.

The second reason she wanted to cry was because it was her daughter's big softball game today. Her husband, thankfully, had the day off and could take her, but her motherly sensibilities informed her that work on Saturday's, especially pick ups, blew. Not only did she not take her daughter to the game, it started in thirty minutes- and once this guy was picked up, it would be at least two hours of processing and paperwork. She would miss the game completely. 

Still, she had agreed to go. Despite the high demands and almost constant stress, she loved her job- she felt like she was contributing to something larger than herself. She was happy that she was able to take some people out of not good situations before, and she hoped, with all her heart, that this would be the case today. But, then again, some were not.

It was with this thought on her mind that she had approached the apartment door designated in her legal documentation- The great city of Atlanta in the state of Georgia had sent her here to pick up one Andrew, a lawyer, to be sent over to The Leafstone facility in New York.

She knocked, once arrived, five times on the door. Then, not getting an answer, she knocked once more. 

Still no. 

Again. 

Again. 

One last time. 

Sara frowned, shaking her head. 

"It's gonna be one of those days, huh?" She asked whoever might be listening. 

Sometimes this happened- someone might flee the premises, or worse, kidnap one of the diminished. If such was the case, the authorities would have to get involved. 

Dreading the extra hours of paperwork that was to come, Sara pulled out her phone as she heard someone coming up the stairs.

She glanced over to the stairwell, seeing a black mop of fro done up in a bun give way to a very tall, lanky black woman. Perhaps another apartment tenant? Not that it mattered. She had something in each of her hands.

Sara was about to hit the call button on her phone when she realized that the woman had ambled up to her and was now reaching for the keys. Surprised, she found that she was looking at her. 

"Hi, are you the, uh, the folks from the..."

Sara nodded, producing a smile that was only half really sincere. Was this Andrew's roommate perhaps?

Sara held out her hand, cordially as possible, though she wasn't feeling it. Females living with diminished folk could sometimes put up a fight, she remembered, and that made her tense up slightly. Still, as Sara locked hands and then eyes with the tall, cafe au lait skinned (I am so jealous, she thought) woman, she didn't have that fight in her eyes. Something about them seemed almost... Relaxed. Calm. 

Unworried.

"Yes ma'am. My name is Sara, and I'm here to pick up Andrew." Pick up was the preferred euphemism for 'obtain for processing.' 

"Is he in the apartment, ma'am?"

Darcy shifted her hands again, passing the few items that Sarah had just now noticed. A package of bacon, a small half dozen carton of eggs, and a can of whipped sweet cream. 

Maybe she’s making waffles, thought Sara absent-mindedly. She watched her dig the keys from her pocket, flipping dexterously to find the appropriate one. 

“Oh, uh, noooOOOo…” 

The sudden lilt in Darcy’s voice threw off the other woman. She cocked an eyebrow, watching carefully as Darcy’s brown eyes flickered down to her own chest, up again, and then bite her lip. 

“No… no, he’s not…” Darcy said, struggling to fit the key into the door lock. Sara wasn’t absultely sure, but she thought she saw Darcy twitch slightly, and maybe, if her ears didn’t deceive her, giggle. 

“No. And, actually, I nnnnnnneeeEEEeed to, uh, get you something, S-suh, Sara.” Darcy hurriedly rushed through the door. “I’ll be right back!” The door closed just as quickly.

The social worker, one of the most unsung heroes on God’s green earth, stood there in awe. She’d been to many tweaked out, very run-down drug houses with enough chemical substance to stock a hospital pharmacy. She’d seen drug-addled men and hooked women sing, dance, vomit, and scream their lives out. She’d administered the healing arts to many people who were so far gone in mental and muscular degeneration that they could only eat through a tube in their stomach and weren’t allowed anything sharp to use for fear of what they might do. She’d seen a lot of strange things- Darcy’s zero to sixty spaz out might have been one of the stranger. 

“Great,” she mumbled to herself. “Now I’m gonna have to deal with some drug-“

She stopped the grievance midway to listen- through the door she heard another muffled yelp, one that spoke of utter delight mixed with consternation. 

“Andrew! If you’re gonna keep wiggling around like that in there, I’m not gonna keep you tucked in there… wait, hold on, let me just…” 

The last few words came closer to the door, and then, just as Sara thought the apartment door would swing open, an envelope slid under and landed at her feet.

“Now, little guy… why don’t we have some dessert in bed before breakfast?”

The accompanying giggle faded down the hall and Sara heard no more. She stood there for a second, still awestruck.

Maybe the whipped cream wasn’t for waffles after all. A smile crept across her face.

Bending over, Sara snatched up the envelope that had been deposited at her feet, apparently meant for her- it was addressed to ‘Social Worker.’

She tore open the envelope, and inside was a handful of papers, what looked like forms. At the front of the stack was what looked like a cover letter.

“To Whom It May Concern, or to the Social Worker in the employment of the City of Atlanta, Georgia-

Upon review of the contract and release-to-state-care form signed by myself and witnesses at the office of Dr. White and co., it was brought to my attention that there is an escape clause that is active when criteria are duly fulfilled and notarized. The following is attached to fulfill aforementioned criteria.

1. Diminished adult party has been cleared by licensed healthcare professional to act as agent for self (Cleared by Dr. James White, bill of health incl.)

2. Written declaration of intent by diminished adult party notarized by licensed attorney (Dictated by Andrew Beckermann, JD; notarized by David Syrett, JD)

3. Written declaration of acceptance of responsibility of guardianship of diminished adult party notarized by licensed attorney (Acceptance by Darcy Okoye-Mercier; notarized by David Syrett, JD)

4. Cohabitation formed signed by two parties and notarized etc. (Signed by both Beckermann, Okoye-Mercier; notarized by Syrett)

5. $39 US dollars service charge (provided by check)

Consider this letter as an initiation of the escape clause within the former contract and release form. If there are any questions, do contact David Syrett at the number provided below. 

Sincerely,

Andrew J. Beckermann, J.D.”

There was a tiny signature below the printed name. Sara stared at it for a few seconds, and then read the letter again, and then, for good measure, once more. After, she checked the papers that were attached, and was even surprised (though she could not tell you why) to find the check attached to it as well- it was written out from Darcy, the woman whom she had just met. 

She sighed aloud. Everything was there. It was technically all good- Sara was no lawyer, but she had taken a few required law classes during her graduate coursework (mostly macro-level policy) and everything seemed to be in order. The only thing that she had to reasonable worry about was if she had any reason to believe Andrew was in some sort of duress during this transaction or signature.

As if on cue, she heard another stifled, delighted yelp and giggle, along with something that sounded like a soft moan come from inside the door. 

"Oh, Andrew~"

Something told her she didn’t have to sweat the duress thing. 

Smiling, Sara began to walk away when she went back to the door. 

“You could have just said ‘I don’t want to go, I changed my mind,’ you know!”

She then began down the stairs again, pocketing the letter in one fist and clutching the cage in the other hand by the handle. She would have to take this information back to her office in Atlanta, but then again, that could be done later- Sara had a softball game to catch.

~Fin~