LUCILLE CLEAMONS had exactly seventeen minutes left on her lunch hour to wipe the ketchup stain off Marcus's face, get the twins to the day care clinic, and catch the 27 bus back to work before Mr. Darmon would start docking her $7.85 per hour (or 13 cents a minute).

"C'mon, Marcus," she sighed to her five-year-old, who was sprouting a face full of ketchup. "I don't have time for this today." She dabbed at his white, collared dress shirt, which had taken on the look of one of his messier finger paintings, and - damn - none of the stain was coming off.

Cherisse pointed from her chair. "Can I have an ice cream, Momma?"

"No, child, you can't. Momma's got no time." She looked at her watch and felt her heart stab. Oh God...

"C'mon, child." Lucille crammed their Happy Meal boxes onto the tray. "I got to get you cleaned up fast."

"Please, Momma, it's a McSundae," Cherisse cried.

"You can buy your own McSundae or whatever you like when it's your dollar sixty-five going across the table. Now both you come get yourselves cleaned up. Momma's got to go."

"But I am clean," Cherisse protested.

She dragged them out of the booth and hurried toward the bathroom. "Yes, but your brother looks like he's been in a war."

Lucille pulled her kids............