"Oh, come on! Just look at it!" The man shoved the document in my face, his voice rising in frustration. "She signed the contract promising to pay me back in two months!" His face was flushed, red with anger, his knuckles white around the paper.
I sighed, the weight of the day pressing down on me. The office was its usual mix of dull disputes and petty grievances. How many times have I listened to these ridiculous cases? Shouldn't these people be taking this nonsense to family court or something?
"Let me see," I said, already dreading the exchange, taking the document from his trembling hand. It was a promissory note, stating his wife would repay $500 within two months. I glanced at the woman sitting across from me. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, a look of utter boredom painted across her face, as if she'd been through this a thousand times before and probably had.
"Ma'am," I said, trying to get her attention. "Are you aware that you're legally bound to fulfill the contract, now that you've signed it?"
She shrugged dismissively, as though the entire conversation bored her. "Don't worry. Just give me a warning, and we'll be out of your hair," she replied, her tone almost too casual. Her response suggested this wasn't their first visit or even their tenth.
I glanced over at Russell, my colleague, who had been silently observing the exchange. He met my gaze with a subtle nod, signaling for me to take the next step.
"Alright," I said, turning back to the couple. "Ma'am, you are required to pay back the money. If you don't, there will be legal consequences. And, sir," I turned to the man, "I hope this resolves the issue for you." I handed them a warning note, hoping that would be the end of it.
The man grumbled something under his breath but nodded begrudgingly. He motioned for his wife to leave, and together they shuffled out of the station. I watched them go, the elderly man probably in his seventies, trailing behind his wife like a shadow. The whole scene was almost comical, like a sad little play on repeat. I couldn't help but shake my head in amusement.
"That's their tenth visit here," Russell said, leaning back in his chair with a quiet chuckle. "He comes every Tuesday, without fail. Expect them again next week."
Russell and I had been colleagues for six years. Over that time, we'd forged a solid friendship, one built on mutual respect, shared stories of our former partners, and the kind of understanding that only comes after surviving countless hours together. I still remembered the day we first met. My former partner had retired, and Russell's had passed away from cancer. For the first two years, there had been a shared sadness in our eyes, an unspoken bond of loss. It took time to fade. But now, we were just two worn-out professionals, stuck in the endless cycle of civil complaints.
"Well, it's your fault we're stuck here," I said with a sly grin, shooting him a playful look.
He just smirked and ignored me, as he always did.
For a guy built like a tank 6'2" with muscles that strained against his uniform. Russell had perfected the art of tuning me out. Ever since we'd been suspended for a month (a story for another day), he'd learned to let my cheeky remarks roll off his back. I didn't regret it, though. Being a thorn in his side was one of my favorite pastimes. There was something satisfying about watching his jaw tighten every time I poked at him. At 5'7", I wasn't exactly a physical match for him, so I stuck to what I did best: verbal sparring. It was dangerous, but safe.
"It's lunch," Russell said, his voice nonchalant as he stood up, already picking up the phone to place our usual order.
"Should we grab the usual?" he asked without looking up.
I nodded, watching him as he dialed. In minutes, our double cheeseburgers, mango smoothies, and fries were on their way.
We ate in silence, the kind of comfortable quiet that comes with years of working together. There was no need for conversation; we both knew how to fill the space with just the right amount of stillness. When we were done, I tossed the trash and returned to my desk. That's when my phone rang.
"Stacy?" The voice on the other end was familiar, and I already knew who it was.
"Speaking. Who am I talking to?" I replied, my tone flat, bracing for what was coming.
"This is Anna from the Child Protection Center. We have Jamie here, and she has your name listed as her guardian."
I stared at the ceiling, the familiar weight settling in my chest. Jamie's mother had reported her again. Probably for stealing money or smashing her boyfriend's car. Classic Jamie.
I sighed deeply. "I'll be there," I said, cutting the call before I could change my mind.
I turned to Russell, who was already on his feet, his eyes rolling. He knew the drill. Without a word, we grabbed our jackets and headed out to the center.