Dorothea Puentes's Arc

Chapter 8 of 9

Dorothea called the social worker's office Monday morning and left a voicemail asking when he could reschedule. She kept her voice steady and polite. Then she sat at her kitchen table and wrote out a plan in her notebook—three things she could do this week to show she ran a proper home. First, she'd take the tenants on an outing so they could be seen in public, happy and cared for. Second, she'd organize the medication schedule into a binder the social worker could review whenever he returned. Third, she'd invite him to dinner at the boarding house so he could see everyone together, calm and comfortable. By noon, she'd called Mr. Henderson and two other tenants into the front room and told them they'd be going to the new art studio on Wednesday. Mr. Henderson smiled and said that sounded nice. She felt something loosen in her chest. This would work. The social worker would see her effort, see her tenants thriving, and his doubts would fade. She just had to keep moving forward. Tuesday afternoon, she walked three blocks down with a small stack of flyers under her arm. A wooden power pole stood on the corner, already covered with announcements about yard sales and lost cats. She tacked up her own notice—a list of helpful phone numbers for seniors, warnings about common scams, and a reminder about the upcoming community health clinic. Her name and the boarding house address sat at the bottom. Anyone who walked past would see she cared about the neighborhood, that she looked out for people who needed help. On her way back, she stopped at the pharmacy to pick up Mr. Henderson's refill and chatted with the pharmacist about proper storage. The pharmacist nodded and said she clearly knew what she was doing. Dorothea thanked her and left with the prescription bag in hand. Each small action built the picture she needed the social worker to see. By the time he returned, there would be no doubt left. Wednesday morning, she checked her voicemail and found a message from the social worker's office. He'd be back next week and wanted to schedule a home visit. Her hand tightened around the phone. This was her chance. She walked to the social services building that afternoon with a folder of tenant records under her arm. The secretary wasn't at the desk, so Dorothea left the folder in the metal cabinet by the entrance where the night drop slot sat. The cabinet had a heavy lock, the kind meant for sensitive documents. She slipped her folder through the slot and heard it land inside. A note taped to the cabinet said files left here would be reviewed within two business days. She stepped back and looked at the building. The records showed everything—medication schedules, bank statements, meal plans. All organized, all correct. The social worker would open that folder and see proof that she ran her house the right way. She walked back to her car and drove home, already planning the dinner she'd serve when he arrived. Thursday morning she drove back to the social services building. She needed to suggest meeting outside the boarding house first, somewhere neutral where the social worker could ask questions without the tenants listening. A stone patio sat beside the building, cream-colored with benches arranged under shade trees. She walked across it and tested one of the benches. Solid and comfortable. The trees would keep them cool even in summer. She went inside and left another note at the front desk, suggesting they could meet here before the home visit if he preferred. The secretary took the note and said she'd pass it along. Dorothea stepped back outside and sat on one of the benches, rehearsing what she'd say. She'd explain her system, show him the binder, answer every question calmly. No defensiveness, no sharp words. Just facts and proof. She stood and walked back to her car, her plan complete. Everything was in place now. The social worker would see what she'd built, and his doubts would finally end.