It’s like one of those invisible walls of gooey silence is rising up between us as Mom drives to the county animal shelter where she works. I can hear dogs barking from inside the building as she slows down and turns into the parking lot. Mom shuts the car off and unbuckles her seat belt.

“Honey, I need you to listen to me.” She turns in her seat and reaches out to hold my hand. “Mama and I love your imagination; we love your stories and how creative you are. I don’t want that to change. But when it comes to school, you’ve got to recognize when it’s time for pretending and dreaming, and when it’s time for real life and responsibilities.”

“But Mom, this was real life!”

“Sadie, stop!” she raises her voice, but then pauses. “I don’t know, maybe we need to set up another meeting to go over your IEP or—”

“No, Mom,” I interrupt. “It’s not that.”

“Well”—she throws her hands up in the air—“then I don’t know what else to say.” She takes a deep breath, and continues, calmer, quieter. “It’s not okay for you to get sent to the principal’s office or stay home sick when things get tough or you’re having a bad day at school. And you know I cannot keep leaving work in the middle of the day like this.”

“I didn’t mean to make you leave work, I promise,” I try to tell her.

“Well, eleven years old is old enough to understand that actions have consequences.”

Consequences can mean a lot of different things. Today, consequences mean poop. Actual poop.

“Doodie Duty,” says Patrick, one of the vet techs. “That’s what we call it around here: Doodie Duty!”

I follow Patrick into one of the back rooms of the animal shelter that is full of cages, from the floor to the ceiling. There’s one room of crates that are just for cats, and one room of crates that are just for dogs. And they both stink.

It’s our job to clean out every single cage.

“What did you do to get stuck with Doodie Duty?” I ask Patrick.

“Nothing.” Then he asks me, “Why, what did you do?”

“Nothing,” I lie at first, but then I say, “Okay, I got sent to the principal’s office for drawing on my desk and falling out of my chair and disrupting the class. Mom had to come get me.”

He laughs, and says, “Well, I might have been late to work a few too many days.”

“I’m late a lot too,” I tell him. “Mom doesn’t like that.”

“No, she doesn’t,” he agrees.