Ten years ago, Desa had slept rough under the trees, using her coat as a pillow. Now, she had an office. It wasn’t much to look at: just a wooden desk surrounded by four white walls. The large window looked out on Market Street with gray muntin segmenting the glass into little squares.
Seated in a wooden chair with her legs stretched out, feet crossed at the ankle, Desa held a badly wrinkled piece of paper in front of her face. She read through a report that had been scrawled out with cramped, almost illegible penmanship. At this point, it was hard not to skim. They all said the same thing; her Field Binders had been combing through the city, but as of yet, they had found no trace of the old man.
Sighing, Desa tossed the sheet onto her desk. She pressed her palm against her forehead and
