Sister Augustine’s low-heeled shoes snap the asphalt as she approaches the police station. She makes this visit twice a month, always in the same week, but never the same day. In her arms she cradles her famous banana bread, made with an ingredient not found on any recipe list, and red dahlias wrapped in brown paper.
She pushes open the glass door. Officer Lopez’s desk is right behind the receptionist station, although there hasn’t been a receptionist in over five years.
Lopez stops typing when she sees Sister Augustine.
“Sister,” she says, getting up. “You have to tell me your secret. You have better skin than I do.”
“Goodness.” Sister Augustine waves her off. “Maybe thirty years ago, but not now.” She sets the banana bread on the counter and offers Lopez the flowers. “Here, Janet, th
