The Auburn House had never been a house or a home, but for
decades it had been a little church o f yellow brick and colored
glass. It sat surrounded by an ugly chain-link fence a few blocks
from downtown Memphis. A security guard walked along by the
fence ready to open the gate. A block behind was the decaying
housing project from which the patients o f Auburn House came.
They were all teenage mothers, whose mothers had also been
teenagers and whose fathers were generally unknown. The
average age was fifteen. The youngest had been eleven. They
walked to Auburn House because cars were scarce and they were
too young to drive.
Adam parked at the side o f the building and asked the guard
for directions. Inside he saw half a dozen young girls sitting in
plastic chairs with children at their feet. Lee was waiting for him
along the hallway. They kissed each other.
“What exactly do you do here?” he asked her.
“We work with young mothers. Auburn House is a nonprofit
organization staffed by volunteers,” Lee replied. “Come into my
office and I’ll tell you about it.”