დ Elara დ
The morning tasted like old coffee and dust. I sat at the kitchen table with a stack of invoices and the petition that did not exist yet. Aria had sent me a number for someone who could help. A friend of a cousin who had a friend at the county office. Which, in Willowridge, meant everyone knew before I finished dialing. I wrote the name on my palm and drove to the courthouse two towns over, the one with the brick steps that made your knees complain and a flag that snapped hard in the wind. The clerk pointed me down a hall that smelled like paper and lemon cleaner. I found a door with a glass pane and a hand-painted sign. Valley Legal Aid. Inside, a woman looked up from a pile of folders and took me in like she was measuring my seams.
“Are you Elara?” she asked. She stood and mo
