The streets of the stray town carried noise the way they hadn't in years.
Late afternoon light lay thick and gold across the cracked pavement. The park was full—bodies packed shoulder to shoulder around a raised patch of ground where Daphne stood speaking, one hand lifted, voice carrying clean over the murmur. Not the crowd of a celebration. The crowd of people who had decided something together. Arms rose. Voices answered. The air itself felt charged, as if the decision had weight and the weight had spread.
Sherry and Becky stood at the back listening. Daphne had seen them arrive, caught their eyes across the heads, given the smallest nod—quick, private, then gone. But she had her people in front of her and they came first, so the two women waited, the press of the crowd warm at their backs.
"She's a good orator," Becky said. The words sat low under the noise.
"She is." Sherry watched her, eyes narrowed against the light. "She taught at Hogsby."
