Dear Wigleaf,

Met a man named Leopold today. We were working together, lifting children by their underarms and setting them back down. He didn't talk to me but said that his name was Leopold, and we went on lifting and setting the kids down, one after the other, first him then me, the line of them worming down the hall out of sight. I hadn't known what to wear or when to show up. No one told me. We just started lifting. Kids in puffy jackets, kids in polo uniforms. Leopold wore leather work boots and white tube socks I could see when his blue jeans rose up. Sometimes he grunted, lifting the next kid, or gave out high fives and what's-up's. I didn't like the feel of their warm armpits. People say kids are always sticky. More like they're never cold. Every one of them made my palms sweat a little more, every one of them like clingy little space heaters. Seemed like we lifted and set for about seven hours. I'm not sure what for. The kids never ended. We could've lifted and set till dark. Always there was another one, ready or not, scrabbling up your leg or breathing in your open mouth, coughing with their hands at their sides. It was strange, and I never clocked in or out.