The Agency (2026)

What would you do if someone gave you the opportunity of a lifetime? An opportunity to change not only your life, but the lives of your children and their children. All you had to do was offer up a name. Would you do it? Before you answer, make sure you've been hungry first. Not I missed lunch hungry. I mean standing in front of the refrigerator hoping something new will appear if you open the door just one more time. I mean telling your children you already ate because there isn't enough for all three of you. I mean putting twelve dollars of groceries on the checkout counter and silently praying your debit card doesn't decline. Be that kind of hungry. The type of starvation that chills you to even think about. Then tell me what you wouldn't do. *** "I'm sorry, Ms. Wells. There's simply nothing else I can do." The woman sitting across from me doesn't sound sorry. I don't blame her. She's probably said the same thing fifty times today. Behind her, a Department of Human Services poster shows a smiling family walking through a field. Everyone has perfect teeth–even the dog. Not one of them looks like they're waiting on four years of back child support. "We contacted the noncustodial parent's last known employer," she continues. "They've informed us that Mr. Carter is no longer employed there." "He is." She exhales. "He is," I repeat. "He's working for the same man. They're paying him under the table." "Ms. Wells—" "They've been doing this for four years." "We've discussed this before." "And apparently we're going to keep discussing it," I retort. Her lips tighten. I know I need to stop. I also know I can't. Every month Trey doesn't pay child support is another month I'm trying to figure out which bill can be late. Another month of stretching groceries. Another month of pretending everything is fine when Mia asks why we can't order pizza like the family on television. "We cannot garnish income that we cannot verify," she says. "So that's it?" "No. The case remains open." I laugh. I don't mean to. It just comes out. "Great. Maybe the case can pay my daycare bill." "Ms. Wells." "I'm sorry." And I am. She's not the one who had two babies with me and then decided fatherhood was optional. I press my palms against my eyes before the tears can escape. "I'm just tired." Her expression softens a little. "I understand." "No, you don't." The words come out before I can stop them. She sits back. "I'm sorry," I say again. "I know you're doing your job. It's just..." I swallow. "Once I pay rent and daycare, there's barely anything left. You gave me the names of the daycare centers that take vouchers, but they are all full. "What about your neighbor? Mrs. Wilkins?" "She had a stroke a few weeks ago." "Oh." "Yeah." For the first time since I sat down, the woman doesn't have an answer. Neither do I. She closes my file. And just like that, my appointment is over. *** I'm halfway across the lobby when I notice her. Actually, everybody notices her. You don't wear red-bottom heels to DHS because you're trying to blend in. The woman looks somewhere between fifty and sixty, although something about her makes her age difficult to guess. Her caramel-colored skin is flawless. Dark hair streaked elegantly with gray is twisted into a loose bun, with curls framing her face. She's wearing a crisp white blouse with flowing ruffles and a long black skirt trimmed with leather and lace. She looks expensive. Not flashy. Expensive. There's a difference. She looks up as I pass. Our eyes meet. She smiles. I give her a polite nod and keep walking. Probably here about her daughter, I think. Apparently rich people have deadbeat fathers to deal with too. *** Outside, the heat hits me like somebody opened an oven. I check the time. If I hurry, I can still make the bus. "Jasmine." I stop. Nobody out here should know my name. I turn around. Red Bottoms is standing behind me. "Do I know you?" "No." "Then how do you know my name?" "You'd be amazed what you can learn when people assume you're not listening." She smiles. I don't. "Have a nice day." I start walking. "Do you need a ride?" "No, thank you." "I think you do." I stop again. "Lady, I don't know what you're selling, but I don't have any money." Her smile gets wider. "I'm not trying to take your money, darling." "Good, because you're wasting your time." "I'm trying to give you some." That gets my attention. Not enough to make me turn around. But enough to make me walk slower. "I have an opportunity for you," she calls. I turn. "What kind of opportunity?" "The profitable kind." I stare at her. She stares back. "I'm not a stripper." Her eyebrows rise. "And I'm definitely not a prostitute." For approximately two seconds, she looks offended. Then she starts laughing. Not chuckling. Laughing. "Darling, I have absolutely nothing against either profession, but why on earth would I recruit you for that?" "Excuse me?" "Why use your body to make money when you can use your brain? Far less wear and tear plus greater reward." "Whatever this is, I'm not interested. I have to get back to work." I turn toward the bus stop. She points behind me. "You mean on that?" My bus rolls past the intersection. "No, no, no—" I run toward the curb. The driver either doesn't see me or doesn't care. Probably the second one. The bus disappears around the corner. Behind me, the woman makes a sympathetic little sound. I turn around slowly. She is smiling. "You did that on purpose" "Did what?" "You distracted me." "I offered you transportation. You declined." "I didn't need transportation until you made me miss my bus." "And now you do." I stare at her. She smiles. I hate that smile. "Fine." "Excellent." "But you're taking me straight to work." "Of course." She turns toward the side of the building. I follow her. Then stop. A long black limousine is parked in the alley. "Absolutely not." She glances over her shoulder. "What now?" "I'm not getting into some strange limousine with you." "Why?" "Because I've seen enough crime shows to know how that ends." She laughs again. The driver's door opens. A tall, thin man steps out. He's older, maybe in his sixties, with smooth ebony skin and close-cropped gray hair. His suit is immaculate. His face is handsome. Something about him makes the hairs on my arms rise. His eyes are gray. Not light brown. Not blue-gray. Gray and empty. "Jasmine," the woman says, "this is Maurice. Maurice has been driving me for longer than you've been alive." Maurice opens the rear door, but he doesn't say anything. "Does Maurice talk?" "When necessary." Maurice looks at me. Apparently this isn't necessary. I should walk away. I know that. Instead, I look at the time. Lamar is going to lose his mind if I'm any later. "Straight to work?" "Straight to work." I get in. *** The inside of the limousine smells faintly of leather and something sweet I can't identify. The woman sits across from me. "Where are we going?" she asks. "Fifth Street Grocers," I say. "Excellent. Maurice?" "I heard her," he responds. I nearly jump. The woman laughs. Apparently Maurice does talk. "My name is Minerva Crane." Of course it is. A woman like this couldn't be named Susan. "Jasmine Wells." "Jasmine." She rolls my name around like she's tasting it. "Beautiful name." "Thanks," I say. "And two children?" Every muscle in my body tightens. "How do you know that?" "I was sitting outside the office," Minerva replies. "You were listening to my conversation?" "I prefer observing." "I prefer nosy." She smiles. "I like you." "That makes one of us." "Two, actually." I look toward Maurice. His eyes remain on the road. "I'm assuming you don't spend your afternoons hanging around government offices offering random women rides." "Certainly not." "So what do you want?" "To offer you employment." "Doing what?" "Solving problems." "What kind of problems?" "Expensive ones." I stare at her. She reaches into her handbag. "I own a private firm." She hands me a business card, but calling it a business card doesn't seem right–seems too plain. This card is leather–actual black leather. The words are embossed across the front in metallic red letters. It almost reminds me of blood. THE AGENCY M. CRANE, PROPRIETOR I flip it over. There's only a phone number. "No address?" "No." "Website?" "No." "Email?" "No." "Then this isn't a business." Minerva looks amused. "We've managed quite well without social media." "Doing what?" "Helping women." "What women?" "Women like you." I hand the card back. "I'm good." "No, Jasmine." Her voice changes. The playfulness disappears. "You're not." I look at her. She gestures toward the card. "Keep it." "I don't want it." "You will." Something about the certainty in her voice irritates me. "You don't know me." "I know you're behind on your rent." My stomach drops. "I know your children's father owes you four years of child support." "Stop." "I know you're working hard at a job that barely pays enough to keep your children fed while the man who helped create them has structured his entire life around avoiding his responsibility to them." "Stop." "And I know you're tired." "Lady, I said stop." She does. The car goes quiet. My eyes burn. I hate crying. More than that, I hate crying in front of strangers. Minerva reaches into her bag and offers me a handkerchief–an actual handkerchief. Of course she has one. I don't take it. She puts it away. "I was once very much like you," she says. I laugh bitterly. "You?" "Yes." "With the limo?" "No limo." "The shoes?" She looks down at them. "Certainly not the shoes." Despite myself, I smile. "There was a time," she continues, "when I had children to feed and not enough money to feed them. I also had a man who considered his responsibilities negotiable." "What happened?" Her eyes meet mine. "I was offered an opportunity." Something about the way she says it makes my smile disappear. The limousine slows. Fifth Street Grocers is ahead. "What's the job?" I ask. Minerva crosses one leg over the other. "I don't discuss business in cars." "You brought it up." "I introduced myself." The limousine stops. Maurice gets out. "That's it?" "For now." The door opens. I don't move. "What happens if I call?" "You'll receive an invitation." "To where?" "The Agency." "And then?" "You'll hear my offer." "Why me?" For the first time, Minerva doesn't immediately answer. She studies me, then smiles. "Because you're almost ready." "For what?" "To stop asking people to give you what you're owed." She leans closer. "And start taking what you deserve." I climb out. Maurice closes the door behind me. The window lowers. "Jasmine?" I turn. Minerva points toward my hand. I'm still holding the card. "You have twenty-four hours." "For what?" "To decide how badly you want your life to change." The window rises. The limousine pulls away. I stand outside Fifth Street Grocers staring at the leather card. THE AGENCY I should throw it away now. Whatever Minerva Crane is selling, I don't want any part of it. I shove the card into my purse. Just in case.