dandelion // h.s.

t w o

Tense breathing; quiet tires on the road; the occasional nasal sigh. Boo counts every sound she hears during the drive to the police department downtown. Martha keeps both hands tied tight to the wheel and a steely expression set on her face; Boo stares moodily out the window, chewing on her lower lip until she can taste metal in her mouth. The ride is barely ten minutes long but thanks to the frigid atmosphere in the car, it may as well take an hour.

Martha parks at the front of the small parking lot; there are only three other cars around and one is a cruiser. The department itself is a one-story red brick, with white-trimmed square windows dotting the walls and a set of glass double doors. A small concrete staircase with no more than five steps leads up to the front entrance. A rather unassuming structure, yet inside lingers the bane of Boo's existence.

Martha cuts the engine, bathing the cabin in silence, but neither she nor Boo exit the truck.

"What's the point, Nana?" Boo asks quietly, turning her head to observe her grandmother. "We go through this once a month."

Martha stares at the steering wheel for a moment, not meeting Boo's gaze. "She's family," she answers after a pause. "We have an obligation."

Boo knows she's speaking of one of Jack Creek's dearest unspoken rules - duty lies with blood. Take care of your own, even if they can't take care of themselves. It's just another truth that keeps the gears of the city turning. Martha, as unorthodox as she may be, obeys this the same as any other citizen. There's no mention of having love for her daughter, though Boo doesn't doubt that Martha loves Lori.

But try as she might, Boo could never wrap her head around that idea. Shouldn't your actions lie with those you love, not those whose blood you share?

"She's never done anything for you," Boo points out. "Or for me, for that matter."

Martha throws Boo a reprimanding glare. "Don't speak ill of your mother." Without waiting for an answer, she steps out of the truck and shuts the door in one swift motion, leaving Boo alone in the car.

"She isn't my mother," Boo mutters before following Martha into the building.

Inside the department is as uneventful as the exterior. A lone cop sits at a reception desk, her face slouched in boredom. While Martha signs the visitor log, Boo hovers by the front doors with her arms crossed over her chest. Before her is a short hallway with windows on both walls; behind the windows to the right is an open area with several desk officers scattered about. Some are on the phone while others are hunched over in front of computer screens. Nobody seems to be in any kind of hurry.

She can't see anything behind the windows to the left. The Venetian blinds are all drawn tightly, either to shut out prying eyes or cage in something private. Boo suspects a little bit of both.

"Mel," Martha says hurriedly, nodding her head at a door next to reception. "This way."

Boo knows the drill, she's run through it a dozen times. She and Martha venture down the small hallway that leads to the holding cells. The right one is empty; the left one holds a tall, thin woman sitting alone on the gray metal bench, her legs crossed and her face turned to the window.