And this woman is talking about zippers.
“Do you want me to stop?” I ask, flat.
The district woman hesitates, and for one second I can see it—she’s not a monster. She’s a cog. She has rules and policies and a job that depends on her not feeling too much.
“We want it managed,” she says. “Official. Approved. Controlled.”
“Meaning?” I ask.
She slides a form toward me.
A form with blanks.
Inventory list.
Donation tracking.
Parent permission.
Distribution guidelines.
Liability waiver.
A whole stack of paper that essentially says:
WARMTH MUST BE ADMINISTERED PROPERLY.
I laugh once—just a sharp, humorless sound.
The principal winces.
“This is what you want?” I say. “A six-year-old needs a waiver to borrow mittens?”