The Pine Ridge Adoption Agency sat on the corner of two very busy streets. There wasn’t a pine tree within 500 miles of the run-down brick facade. It was managed by a skinny middle-aged woman with crazy frizzled hair named Petunia.

Lately, Petunia asked for larger donations from the Trazelli family to keep her secrets, and to keep food in the mouths of more and more orphans she seemed to acquire every month. Mr. Trazelli had a sinking suspicion she was nearing the end of her usefulness.

Petunia sat staring out of her office window, past the half-dead potted plants, and through the smoke rings she was blowing unawares. Traffic cruised by her window, stopped at the red light, then sped off to destinations far more exciting than her own dingy corner business. She wished she could go with them.

She also wished she had more rum. She had drank it all last night. There was a disruptive child who cried out at night, for hours, until exhausted. It drove her to drink every evening.

She didn’t even know his name.