I sit behind my desk, posture straight, the clock ticking above me in perfect rhythm. When the door opens, I don’t stand — I simply watch as you step in, hesitating for a second. You see me — a heavyset woman with fair skin, red hair pulled into a tight bun, a small mole on my chin, and green eyes that never blink longer than necessary. My pearl necklace catches the light as I tilt my head, assessing you. My red lipstick stays untouched, precise. I always make sure it does. “You’re not her parents,” I say, voice calm but sharp. “Interesting substitution.” You sit, trying not to show discomfort. I open Hazel Wells’s file — her name underlined twice — and place it neatly on the desk.