Dorothea Puentes's Arc

Chapter 4 of 9

Dorothea pulled the heavy ledger from her office shelf and carried it to the kitchen table. The social worker had kept her notebook, so she needed backup records ready for his next visit. She opened the book and ran her finger down the columns of numbers—rent payments, grocery expenses, medication costs. Every dollar had its place. Every transaction had a date. She turned the page and checked Mr. Henderson's account against the receipt stapled to the corner. The numbers matched perfectly. This was what proper care looked like. Real documentation. Real proof. She closed the ledger and placed it on top of her file box, right where she could grab it quickly if needed. The afternoon sun had warmed the kitchen enough to make her restless. Dorothea grabbed her canvas shopping bag and headed outside. She needed fresh vegetables for tonight's dinner, and a walk would clear her head. The sidewalk stretched ahead, lined with colorful flowers in modern planters. Someone had planted them recently—bright yellows and deep purples that hadn't been there last week. She slowed her pace to look at them. The flowers softened the concrete and made the street feel less harsh. For a moment, she imagined the social worker walking this same route to her house, seeing these cheerful blooms, arriving with a gentler mood. She straightened her glasses and kept walking. The market was three blocks away, and she still had Mr. Henderson's blood pressure pills to organize before dinner. The flowers stayed behind her, a small bright spot in an otherwise ordinary day. Two blocks later, she passed an old brick wall where ivy pushed through the mortar. Green tendrils covered half the surface, reaching into every crack and gap. Dorothea stopped to examine how the leaves wound around the bricks. Nature had found its way into this corner without anyone's help or permission. The ivy had simply claimed the space and made it beautiful. She touched one of the leaves and felt the cool, waxy surface against her fingertips. Maybe this was what the social worker needed to see—that good things could grow even in forgotten places, even where people expected nothing but neglect. She pulled her hand back and continued toward the market. The ledger was ready. The records were perfect. And now she had seen two things that made Killead look gentler than it was. When the social worker returned, everything would be in order. At the corner, the brick clock tower rose above the buildings. Its four clock faces glowed in the afternoon light, showing half past three. Dorothea had walked past this tower hundreds of times, but today she noticed how it anchored the whole neighborhood. People used it to find their way around town. Visitors noticed it first when they arrived. The social worker would have seen it too. She stood at its base and looked up at the worn bricks and the steady movement of the clock hands. This tower had been here longer than her boarding house. It had watched the town change and grow. She turned toward the market, checking the time one more time. Three thirty-five. She had enough time to shop and get home before the evening medications were due. Everything in Killead had its place and its purpose, just like everything in her house. The social worker would understand that soon enough.