New York: Allie's War, Early Years

Rook: Allie's War, Book One

Chapter One: Mr. Monochrome

I tried not to fidget as I stared around the room.

I hoped I wouldn't be called last. That desk jockey I spoke to promised me he'd try to get me put at the top of the list, but I was pretty sure he'd just been angling for my number. I still needed to stop by my mom's place before work, and the clock was ticking.

The last thing I needed was to lose my job, on top of everything else.

Just as I was starting to wonder if I should call my manager, Tom, and give him a head's up, the court clerk appeared in the narrow doorway on the other side of the low wall, wearing a portable monitor. He unfurled it from around his wrist and spread it out on the podium-like table in front of him, squinting a little before configuring it around our names.

He looked up at all of us a few minutes later, and squinted at us, too.

I wondered if he needed eye surgery, or if it was some kind of facial tic.

He motioned at me.

"Verify identification," he said, indicating the podium across from him.

I walked up, feeling suddenly like I should have dressed better for this. I'd been told it was just a monthly check-in, to make sure I hadn't run off, or found some way to put my GPS tracker on my dog.

At his pointed gesture towards the microphone, I cleared my throat.

"Alyson May Taylor," I said.

"You go by Alyson?"

I cleared my throat again. "Allie."

"Place of residence?"

"2119 Fillmore Street, San Francisco."

"Race cat?"

I held up my arm, showing him the "H" tattoo on my inner arm.

"Speak into the microphone, please."

I cleared my throat again.

"Human," I said.

"Birth parents?"

I hesitated. "Unknown."

The man's eyebrows went up, changing the shape of his thick face. The elongated skin pushed up the short bangs framing his square cheeks, confirming he'd had some kind of cosmetic surgery to tighten his skin. It struck me that he looked a bit like a cartoon pig.

"I'm adopted, sir," I clarified.

"No registered birth family?" he said. He leaned closer, staring at me.

"No, sir. I was found."

"Found."

"Yes, sir. Under a bridge." A little flustered, I amended, "...Overpass. Registered as a ward of the state, January 13, 1984. Status transferred August 19, 1984, birth parents unknown." I hesitated again, feeling every eye in the room on me now. "My blood's been verified. About a hundred times now, sir..."

The clerk continued to frown at me.

I glanced around at all the other house arrest criminals, like me, who sat in plastic chairs in the white, windowless room. Some of them were probably coming down off more deadly forms of domestic violence charges, statutory rape, petty larceny, drug dealing, assault, identity theft...God knew what else.