On a Tuesday morning, as executives in sharp suits streamed in and out with their badges flashing, no one expected disruption. Yet then the revolving doors spun, and a little girl in a yellow dress, about eight, stepped inside.
The little girl clutched a small canvas backpack, her hair neatly tied in two braids. She walked with a surprising steadiness, even though her feet were clad in worn-out sneakers. The security guard, James, looked down at her and frowned.
“Sweetheart, are you lost?” he asked, crouching a little.
The girl lifted her chin, and said, loud enough for a few people nearby to hear:
“I’m here to interview for my mother.”
A receptionist raised an eyebrow. A man with a briefcase chuckled nervously, thinking it must be some kind of joke. Yet the girl didn’t smile.
