The Trouble with Women

Resistance

I HOVER OUTSIDE my Advisor's open door as she wraps up a call inside her office.

Sasha is a rarity: a woman in her 50s who has maintained a position of some authority—limited, of course, to the do-gooding arena of social services. I can only imagine that, while it comes with an office, the paycheque isn't attractive enough to be challenged by a male applicant.

Of course, she was already in her 40s when the laws changed; established in her career and unlikely to want children, although she is married. From the pictures on her desk, I gather the husband is somewhat older. He has the elbow-patch look of a university professor. Someone with an academic's disinterest in children, anyway. Lucky for Sasha, too, since she was able to cling on while other women fell away, either demoted to less desirable positions or ejected outright.

She notices me hovering and waves me in, pointing silently at the file-cluttered sofa that hardly fits inside the small angles of her office. I push some papers aside and sit down to observe her openly.

Rumour has it, she was a Resistor; one of the fourth-wave women Becks wrote about who refuted the government's claim over their already mature bodies. A real live, modelled in the 70s-style, women's lib activist. If it's true—and I can believe it—then hidden inside this unassuming middle-aged figure with dimpled arms is an actual warrior.

Sasha is well-groomed but unadorned; no makeup, no jewelry, hair unapologetically salt and pepper. She favours loose, cotton clothing—today, it's an Indian Kurta in a deep navy blue that suits her well. She is serious, spare and no-nonsense with a 'hippy' edge. You can imagine her marching or protesting at a rally. She would be immovable.

Only, she must have been moved in the end because there's no way she'd be sitting here now in this place of privilege if she hadn't given way and received her implant like the rest of us.

At least she'll get hers out soon. They remove them once a woman enters menopause.

"Right, that'll work. Yes. Yes, okay," she makes a face to let me know she's almost done. "Bye then," she says finally, making the 'cut' gesture to disconnect the call at last. She turns her clear, bright eyes on me.

"Dolly. How are you?"

"Good. How are you?" I answer reflexively.

"No, really. How are you?" she asks again with a sort of searching look that says she believes I'm not 'good.' My cheeks go hot with shame as though she might know I'm considering accessing records. No, she can't. That's my guilty conscience talking.

I smile openly and give her something.

"Well, I'm tired, to be honest. I had an uncomfortable encounter on the subway yesterday evening, and I found it... difficult to sleep afterward."

"I knew there was something." She nods with understanding. "Your vibrations felt off. Do you want to talk about it?"

Can I tell her that a man put his hand on my knee and I nearly acted out? That the ugly feelings had bubbled up with so much force, they almost spewed all over the man? No, I decide. That's not the kind of thing you can admit to your advisor, even if she was a Resistor-Sister.

My eyes dart to the box of tissues on her desk, and I pluck one out, pretending instead to be on the verge of crying. I dab at my dry eyes and shake my head.

"I'm okay, really. Just one of those things. Nobody was hurt."

Sasha looks frustrated. Angry on my behalf, I suppose.

"Okay, then. As long as you're alright. Here," she reaches into her desk drawer and pulls out a card with a digital case number on it. "Something to take your mind off all that. I know you like to keep busy. I have a new file for you."

I take the card and turn it over in my hand. It's just an access code that will allow me to take over the case.

"A teen, trouble with the law, acting out at school. Father absent. Mother with a drug history, got evicted, moved herself and the kid in with her brother and his wife. Whole family's a bit stoic—cold fish. Unhelpful with the police and didn't want us getting involved. We're being asked to assess the home environment and get the lay of the land there. See if any alarms bells go off."

I nod briskly. I may be damaged, but I can still save the world.

BACK AT MY DESK with a cup of tea in hand and the new file already downloading to my workstation, I get right to business. I have MYA schedule the first home visit for this afternoon. An early release. Something to look forward to. Now, I'll need to prep my case file with the background information.

I speak softly to MYA, so I don't bother Julian, who has a client in his cube right now.

"Open public records, search..." then I stop. "Never mind, I'll use the keyboard."

I pull the ergonomic typing pad over and watch the cursor blink. I could check Becks' names while I'm here. It wouldn't take long. A few numbers. Easy. And it would give us a reason to get together over the weekend. Roger can't trump espionage.

I look around to make sure nobody's going to sneak up on me, then flick back to Becks' list. With a pencil and notepad from my desk drawer, I start creating a list of serial numbers, just like Becks asked.  Out of interest, I pull Missy and Becks' numbers too.

All but one start with D99-.