3 Winifred YatesIt was ten o’clock on Friday morning, Winnie’s ninety-seventh day in women’s transitional housing, and she was trapped in a ground floor office made dim and stuffy by the tightly closed window and the tilted mini blind covering it, supposedly to stop fellow residents from eavesdropping on this private session with her case worker, Taylor Stanwood.
Like that would stop the nosy bitches living here. Winnie shifted on the uncomfortable folding chair and breathed in smells of damp carpeting and moldy paper.
Impersonally furnished with a dented gray filing cabinet and an ancient federal green desk, the six-foot-square room screamed tight budget. Winnie eyed the young woman seated across the desk from her and imagined how noble Taylor probably felt, given the shitty wages this
