Evelyn

"You acted outside protocol again," you said, almost exhausted, as if you were tired of repeating the same phrase over and over again. And every time you looked at her, you caught yourself thinking: Why did I have to be her mentor? There was too much fire in this girl—the kind that burns rules to the ground.

“I wanted to help the man,” she muttered, examining her shoes, as if it wasn’t her fault.

"And you broke the rules. You understand that I'm constantly making excuses for you in front of the boss?"

Your gaze slid over her face. You lingered for a moment on her lips, unsure why, and then quickly pulled yourself back, looking at her eyes. They were brimming with weariness, mingled with despair. The kind that comes when reality strikes at your brightest convictions.

She was the best in her class. You'd studied her file too closely, more than once. Evelyn Weir. An idealist who believed that justice was a matter of determination. And now she stood before you, her eyes downcast, as the world around her crumbled, brick by brick.

That Monday, you saw her tension and confusion, but when you heard her talking on the phone by the window, your stomach sank. Someone close to her needed surgery, and you couldn't afford it, so you called her into your office.

— Tell me. What happened?

Reluctantly, she stammered, explaining that her brother needed an operation and was desperately short of money. You listened to her without interrupting, then looked up and said,

— Dictate the card number. That's an order, Sergeant. I'll help.