Later, as I washed dishes in the kitchen while listening to country music on KUDZU (“No rock, no rap, and no crap!”), my phone rang, and an unfamiliar number flashed on the screen.
“May I speak to Mr. Wiley Cantrell?” a female voice asked.
“This is Wiley.”
“This is Susan North with the Mississippi Department of Human Services. How are you, Mr. Cantrell?”
“I’m fine,” I said.
“I need to arrange a time to see you and do a home visit. When would be a good time for you?”
Do a home visit?
DHS?
The frikkin’ DHS?
Seriously?
Noah and I were not exactly strangers to government types, given that he was on Medicaid and was a child with disabilities with special educational needs, and that we had both been on food stamps and public housing assistance for most of his life, since attracting dec
