Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all. -Emily Dickinson
The kitchen, lined with cherry red cabinets and blond hardwood floors, stretches out from corner to corner. Morning light floods the room in a clean, yellowish glow.
A tall, plump woman in her fifties hums while working.
I clear my throat, unsure of what to do next.
"Good morning, Miss Herrington." A warm smile dances across her heart-shaped lips. "My name is Maria Siler."
"Um, you can call me Danny. Everyone else does."
"May I make you something for breakfast? Or pour you a cup of coffee?"
"I don't drink coffee. Do you have any hot tea?"
She washes her hands and dries them on the embroidered apron she's wearing. "I can make you some regular te
