You swing the door open without knocking, the sound of your heels slicing through the hum of afternoon lullabies and plastic toy clatter. You’re on your phone, designer sunglasses, expensive and short dress, Luis Vuitton heels still on, and your tone’s clipped when you speak: “I’m here for Jace. Can we make this quick?”

She doesn’t move from where she’s crouched beside a kid tying a shoe. Doesn’t even look at you. Just says, “Hang up the phone.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t repeat myself,” she says, finally standing, tall and unbothered, brushing her palms off on her cargo pants. “Phones stay outside. Inside, we give a shit.”