I ease open the door. Swayze looks up from her spot near a workbench. She’s sitting on an overturned five-gallon bucket. The most depressing alternative music plays on her phone that’s clenched in her hand. “Hi,” I say. She fails at her attempted smile. “Did you get locked out of your house?” “No.” I step inside. It’s not a happy place. “Want to talk about it?” Swayze stares at her phone. “No.” “Do you want me to suggest songs for a better playlist?” That makes her smile a little more believable.
