The morning of the interview Gladis showed up exactly on time, something she never did. Endless maple and pine trees towered over the mansion and drew shadows like darkness, like night. To the right of the house: a wooden playhouse and two swings dangling from rope on a branch. To the left: more trees.
“Hello? Gladis?” Mrs. Johnson appeared on the front stone steps. She had silky blonde hair parted down the middle and a small constellation of freckles sprinkled on her forehead and cheeks. She looked like she smelled nice, like the color pink. “Welcome,” she said.
