"Mom, I told you the stuffing was too heavy," Brian says, without looking up from his desk.

The cop drones on, relating time of death, when the body was found, all of the little boxes that Allison needs to fill on her computer form. Child Death Reports usually take about three hours, but Allison can do one in just under two and a half. She is an excellent typist.

"I wonder if he waited half an hour after eating," Allison says.

Brian gives her a polite chuckle from the other side of the cubicle wall.

"That was my last one," Allison says. "So are we still going out tonight, or what?"

"Well if the children of Texas can go fifteen more minutes without dying or getting abused, then I'm done."

The graveyard shift is already there, but they don’t take calls until the second they go on the clock.

"I'm going to get a Coke from the vending machine then. You want anything?" Allison says.

"No, I'm good."

Allison walks down the long line of cubicles, stopping at a few to say hi to graveyarders. By the time she gets back, Brian is on the phone. She looks over his shoulder to see what he has pulled up. At the top of the form where it says Name, Brian types trpl chld dth, I'm gonna be a while then he quickly deletes it and types in Andrew Reynoza. Bad luck.

Allison steps over to her cubicle and grabs the blue, fuzzy pen that was given to her by the company. It was part of their new campaign to reduce turnover by making the office a little more fun. She grabs a post-it and writes Andrew Reynoza has terrible fucking timing... maybe it's just a flesh wound. She sticks it to Brian's monitor.

Brian still hasn't missed a beat with whoever is on the other end of the phone. He can keep his mind on three things at once and still manage to ask his questions with inflection that sounds like sympathy. Under Circumstances Surrounding he types Apartment caught fire, cause TBD. You should go on without me. Then he deletes the second sentence.

I’m going to the gym and the grocery store, Allison writes, I'll be back in three hours. And tell them I want the kids rare, not well done.

* * *

When she first started the job, Allison liked to talk about it. At parties, or with old friends, she would explain what she did and tell what she thought were interesting stories.

One night, she went out with some old girl friends from college. She listened patiently to all of their stories about jobs and men and new houses. When it was her turn, she put on her best twang and said, "Here's what my day's like. I talked to Bubba who heard from Shelby Lynn at the Dunkin Donuts who saw Bubba's ex-wife Tammy Sue at the bar down in Leveland last night mugging down with JR who just got out of jail for molesting Bubba's 5th kid from his 9th wife whose name he thinks is Billy Joe and who may be 5 or 6 or 7 but he can't remember because he was born while Bubba was wrongfully incarcerated..."

She stopped talking when she realized that her friends were trying to smile politely or hiding behind napkins pressed to their mouths. "Damn," Allison said, "I didn't even get to the funny part yet."

* * *

Late Friday night is not exactly peak time at the gym, but the off hours are what got Allison coming in the first place. She used to dodge the crowds because she couldn't stand the way people look at a fat girl trying to work out. When co-workers began to comment on the dark circles under her eyes, she gave up late nights and started coming every day before work. After three weeks, she started coming after work as well. After two months, she could feel herself getting fatter as she sat in her cubicle, and she ached to hit the Stairmaster. Feel the burn.

Her knees gave her problems sometimes, but if she eased up for a while, the pain would go away. Then, one day, she came to the gym and thought, Hey, I'm skinnier than that girl. And she knew it was the truth. All that was left of her old self were the lightning bolt stretch marks that refused to go away.

Tonight she hits the Stairmaster hard. She pushes herself, and she can just hear Brian saying, "Stairmaster must be the stupidest invention ever. What's next, Chairmaster? I sit down in the chair... I get up from the chair... I sit down in the chair... I get up from the chair."

Feel the burn.

* * *

Allison and Brian went on their first date exactly two weeks ago. She finally asked him out after three weeks of fantasizing about his stupid jokes and his body that was like concrete.

"Sure," he had said, sitting back in his chair. "I'd like that."

They went to a small cafe on the west side and had expensive dishes of pasta. Then, they walked to the bar down the street and drank shots that tasted sweet and not at all like alcohol.

"So you have four downs, four tries, to get the ball ten yards," Brian said. "But you don't have to get it all at once, it's cumulative."

"So why do they call them downs?" Allison asked, pretending she had never had this conversation before.

"Probably because they end when you get knocked the fuck down."

"I think it's all a little too violent for my taste," she said.

"That's the beauty of it, though. It's like war, but all padded for us. It's a safety valve for all that aggression we keep stored up."

She smiled. "You just work at CPS so girls will think you're sensitive, don't you."

They shared a cab back to Allison's apartment, and she asked him up. Hell with it, she thought as Brian came in behind her. She slammed him against the door and kissed him hard. He fumbled for a second, then ripped her halter top off with one swift jerk.

And I liked that one too... fuck it.

They crashed into the pantry door, then the refrigerator, before they made it to the linoleum floor, clawing at each other. She bit into his shoulder hard enough to draw blood. His nails left marks on her legs as he hurried to get her panties around her ankles.

"Now," she said, "Hurry."

"Yes," he said, "Oh my God, yes."

With one final heave, they collapsed into each other in between the stove and the dishwasher.

* * *

Once Allison's mother had asked, "Do you think you'll ever have a child?"

"No," Allison had answered, "I think it would be like inviting a Ming vase into your home. I mean, once you have it, there's nothing to do but break it."

* * *

Allison stops at the grocery store on the way back to work to pick up a six pack. She knows exactly where the beer aisle is. There is a woman, cart full of frozen dinners and sugar cereals, picking out a bottle of wine. She is dragging a toddler by the arm. The boy starts to cry, and the woman gives him a sharp slap on the hand. Allison gets her cell phone out of her purse.

She follows the woman down two more aisles. The kid is looking at Allison, walking backwards. His stare is only broken occasionally by his mother's absent minded jerks on his arm. "Keep up Joey. Come on now. Keep up." The woman finally turns around to see what has her son's attention. The mother and Allison lock eyes for a second, and Allison walks back the way she came. She goes back to get her beer.

In the parking lot, Allison decides to clean out her car. She pulls up next to the grocery store’s dumpster and begins to sort through the layers of crap on her floorboards. "This is long overdue," she says. She finds receipts, old fast food boxes, college term papers covered in red ink, pebbles, dirt. At the bottom, finds an old tape that she made in high school. One side says "love songs" and the other side says "sad songs." She takes a second and decides to play the side that says "sad songs." The sounds of The Cure crackle out of her crushed speakers, but eventually the stereo finds some sort of balance and the static dies down.

She remembers how back when she made this tape she could hardly listen to it without crying. Now it sounds flat, like Robert Smith's voice is coming out of a phone. She marvels at how people can get upset over what is really just a random collection of tones. Then she remembers how she teared up when she thought someone had taken her Stairmaster at the gym, and when she thought that the grocery store might be out of Shiner Bock.

* * *

The summer after she graduated college was the worst time in Allison's life. She had not tasken the end of her school career seriously, had not made any plans. She moved in with her mom and got the same minimum wage bookstore job she had in high school. Her friends would call, but she didn't want them to see what she was doing with her life. Eventually they quit calling.

Then, one day she was watching a daytime talk show about soccer moms moonlighting as prostitutes, and she just snapped out of it. She saw weeks, then months, then years of different daytime TV shows, different couches, different jobs. She saw how her life could stretch out from this day, and she could just float through it and die at the end. She saw this and very quietly said, "No." For a moment, she sat back and felt satisfied with that word. Then, another thought came to her, "Well, what do I want to do?" She was surprised when this answer came as easily as the first. "I want to save the world."

She sent off twenty resumes, got five interviews, and one offer.

"You'll be working on the Child Protective Services hotline," the woman said, "We take all of the reports of child abuse in the state of Texas. We also take all of the child death reports just in case an investigation is warranted."

"Great," Allison said, "That sounds just great."

* * *

When she came home after her first day of work, she was almost blind from tears. She had to wipe her eyes three times before she could see the lock well enough to put her key in. Her apartment was still mostly empty. There was a mattress on the floor with some pillows and a sleeping bag. There were a few books piled in the corner. There were a few dishes in the kitchen.

She kept sobbing as she shut the door and went to get a glass of water. There was nothing to blow her nose on, so she blew it in her hand, then washed it in the sink. She took a sip of her water and picked up the phone, trying to think of someone to call. Her friends were all too proud of her for having found a good job.

She had five digits of her mother's number dialed before she hung up. "You can always go back to the bookstore until you find something else," Mom would say.

Allison sat on her kitchen floor, cried, wiped her nose, took a drink of water, and cried some more. Eventually, there were no more tears. Everything she felt for those kids at work had run down her face and onto the floor. Allison knew it would be easier tomorrow.

When she finished her water, she found herself gripping the glass, white knuckled. Quickly, she raised it over her head and smashed it on the linoleum. The sound and the pain were immediate and satisfying.

She told her friends that she had cut herself trying to slice her morning bagel.

"I just shouldn't do anything before I've had my coffee," she said.

* * *

Allison and Brian went out on their second date exactly one week after their first. Brian asked her to come out and watch one of his boxing matches.

A boxer Allison thought Of course he's a boxer.

The fights were held in the gym of a local rec center. There was a ring in the center of the gym, surrounded by folding chairs. Allison made herself as comfortable as she could in a chair just a few rows back from the ring.

Brian's match started at eight. The kid he was fighting couldn't have been much more than eighteen, and he looked shorter and pudgier than Brian. Bustamante was tattooed across his back. He seemed to have a lot of his family out tonight.

They came at each other with none of the tests and jabs of earlier fights. They hammered from the opening bell. The sound was like slapping a flat beach ball but with the speed of popping pop corn. There was no skill or strategy involved, just relentless pounding. The crowd roared its approval.

And she could tell by the way he took the punches that Brian was enjoying this. She felt qualified now to say something about the way his body took things.

Thirty seconds in, it was clear that Brian was gaining the advantage. He was throwing more punches. He was not tiring. Brian gave Bustamante a shot right in his gut, and the kid dropped his hands to cover his stomach.

Brian’s left hand crashed in, and the kid's head snapped around. Bustamante stayed upright for a second, as if his legs didn't know he was out, and then he dropped. The ref stopped the fight. There was no ten-count. It was just over, and Brian was still smiling.

He came down the steps from the ring and walked back towards the dressing room. His eyes rested on Allison once, but he didn't see her, or maybe he saw through her.

They were supposed to meet afterwards and go to dinner. Allison didn't show up, but she left him a very polite message with a very good excuse.

* * *

Brian is sitting on the hood of his car in the parking lot when Allison pulls in.

"I'm glad you waited for me," she says.

"Well, it's a sacrifice with my busy schedule," he says, "but you're worth it."

"You smooth talker you," she says, and holds up the six pack like a display model.

"Now this is my kind of Thanksgiving dinner."

She joins him on the hood, and Brian opens two beers with his lighter. Allison is impressed in spite of herself.

"So have you been waiting long?" she asks.

"No, I just finished those reports like five minutes ago."

Allison tries to remember the last time she was more upset about a dead child than about the extra work it would cause her.

"What were their names?" she asks.

"Hmm?"

"What were their names?"

"Original, Extra Crispy, and Rotisserie Gold."

"Right," she says, "right."

They finish their beers and lay back on the hood, staring at the street lights. Brian tries to take her hand, but she pulls away.

"Listen, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be a prick or anything," he says.

"No, it's not that. I just don't think this is a good idea. I don't think we're a good idea."

Brian's tree trunk arms fall to the hood of the car. "What.... why... I mean why not?"

She doesn't answer at first. She knows what she wants to say, but she has a little trouble coming up with the words. "I can't do enough crying for the both of us," she finally says. "I can't even do enough crying for myself."

Brian looks confused, but he seems to understand the tone of her voice. "Do you want me to go?" he asks.

"Yeah," she says, "but just for tonight. I don't want you to go for good."

"Okay," he says, "you going to be all right out here in the parking lot by yourself?"

"I think I'm going to go back in and take some calls. Work up that overtime."

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow then."

"Yeah," she says, "hey, are you okay to drive?"

"Sure," he says, "But I tell you what... if I hit anyone on the way home, I'll make sure it's not a kid. I don't want you to be stuck in the office all night."

Allison watches until his taillights disappear around a curve. She thinks about happiness. About how she always thought that happiness was an absolute, a feeling that was the same for everybody. Now she thinks that simple answers are wrong more often than not. She finishes her beer and puts the rest of the six-pack back in the car. She thinks of her desk and the calls waiting for her there. "Just keep your head above water, girl," she says to herself. "Keep your head above water."