JACKSON WAS LATE FOR his first day, but only by ten minutes. For Jackson, that was almost like being early. The retirement home had a brightly lit entryway with fake flowers on a ledge covered in dust—the flowers AND the ledge were covered in dust, he noticed. He’d probably be asked to clean that up. He just hoped he wasn’t instructed to wipe any elderly butts. That would be the epitome of grossness.
“I’m Jackson,” he told the receptionist. “Ms. Rossi from the high school sent me.”
“Oh, yes.” The older woman behind the glass enclosure smiled. “This is for community service credits. Do you have your forms with you?”
“Uhhh...”
Her smile faded. “Okay, well, I’ll try to get them from the school.”
“Thanks.” He’d faked his forms, invented charities and signed with his left hand.
