By early August, the county inspector who had once looked at me like I was trying to launder sentiment through bad zoning signed off on our transitional-housing permit. We were officially incorporated as Patricia House Transitional Farm, though everyone who lived there still just called it the farm. I hired Helena as resident manager with a real salary, real taxes withheld, real employment history she could take anywhere she wanted. She held her first official pay stub for a full minute before saying anything.
“I haven’t had paper that made me feel this much,” she said.
“You earned it,” I told her.
She laughed once, wiped at one eye with the heel of her hand, and said, “Don’t get emotional on me, Amanda. You’re the one with the binders.”