The hallway smelled of floor wax and the faint chemical sting of the courthouse cleaning solution.

Helen had both hands on the stroller handle, and she kept it tucked close to her hip as we walked.

Patricia rounded the corner by the water fountain, her heels hitting the tile in a rhythm that hadn’t changed in ten years.

Her eyes went right to the stroller and its thin cotton cover.

“Ms.

Whitcomb,” she said, raising her chin.

“I see you brought along your little prop.”