Samantha has a sob story. She’s shaking and wheezing and rocking back and forth at my desk with her arms folded across her chest. If she were allowed to wear make-up it would be running down her face. If she were allowed to wear earrings they would be tangled in the knots of her hair. She is trying to breathe. Hyperventilating and mumbling in weepy bursts. All I can do is hand her a tissue and watch her crumble to the floor. Then here it comes.
Deftly she spun around in her desk and snapped back, “My name is not Chen it’s Ch’en.”
So I went back to my desk and deleted her file.