Free Relief Map by Rosalie Knecht Page A

freckled hands, and she was drawing M&M’s out of a packet one by one, rolling them in her palm before she ate them. She barely moved her lips when she spoke, but her voice always cut clear through the air. She was both larger and smaller than life, physically reduced but unsettling to others, every face turning toward her at the slightest sound. “They’re just trying to look like they’re doing their job. Which means making us look like criminals while they’re at it, and if I don’t get to work by Thursday I’m going to get fired.”
    â€œThey don’t care,” Jocelyn concurred. “When Jeremiah got arrested he stepped on somebody’s foot by accident, and they put him down for assault on a police officer. He already had the cuffs on. They don’t care.”
    Livy stored this tidbit away, thinking she would tell Nelson about it later. Jeremiah’s explanations for his problems always followed this pattern. Innocent act piled on innocent act, with inexplicable malice from teachers and security guards and police at every step. They’d had the same gym class when Livy was a freshman and Jeremiah was a junior, and she had heard him go on this way many times.
    â€œWhere is Jeremiah?” Lena said.
    There was some interest in this question. Jocelyn looked sharply at Lena. “He’s been with his dad in Panoke since June,” she said. She turned away and started tying up the bag in the trash can behind her.
    â€œLucky for him,” said Paula lightly.
    Jocelyn walked around the counter with the trash bag, her face tight with anger. No insinuation about her son escaped her notice.
    â€œSweetheart,” Noreen said, “I don’t think they’re going to come pick that up tonight.”
    Jocelyn stopped, and then walked back around the counter and pushed the full bag back into a corner by a pile of delivery boxes. There was a tight, thwarted silence. Lena Spellar noisily removed a piece of nicotine gum from a bubble pack. Livy pretended to study her newspaper again. The newsprint felt antique already between her fingers, brittle, coated with dust.
    Clarence Green drove up from the low road in his big conversion van. Livy watched while he pulled up in front of the store and parked conscientiously, getting as close to the steps as possible, even though he could have left the van in the middle of the intersection if he’d wanted. He left the engine idling and stepped out.
    â€œThey’re talking about it on the radio,” he called out.
    â€œNo shit?” Jocelyn said. Paula pushed past her and ran outside. Noreen took longer. The radio voice surged out of the car. It was one of the Philadelphia stations, an anchorwoman whose voice was familiar, though Livy couldn’t remember her name.
    â€œâ€”Interpol reports,” the anchorwoman said. “Details are still sketchy. The FBI has issued no statement.”
    â€œWhat did she say?” cried Noreen, blinking in the sunlight.
    â€œShhh, shhh,” Clarence said.
    â€œFor now, roads remain closed in this small community.” Then the station ID, a commercial break.
    â€œWhat the hell!” cried Paula. “That was no information at all!”
    â€œShe said something about extradition before I got up here,” Clarence said. He was out of breath. “I was just sitting in my driveway listening to the radio and they started saying how there’s a roadblock but nobody’s making any statements about it, and nobody knows anything. And that was about it.”
    â€œWell, leave it on,” Paula said. “Maybe they’ll come back to it.”
    Noreen went back into the store and dragged out her folding chair. The news anchors talked about car wrecks and flooding in the Midwest and bond trading and the weather. Noreen was anxious, leaning forward in her chair, and Livy could hear her breathing, light and rasping. By the time the news had cycled back