For a moment we let that sentence be enough. The rain softened in the eaves. The coffee urn gave a tired hiss. The pizza box list, now soft as bread, still held its wet ink names like seeds.
Then the radio on her shoulder stuttered with a tone I hadn’t heard yet tonight—short, clipped, official in a way that made the air take a step back. “County EOC,” a new voice said. “Be advised: road out on the north approach. Temporary cell outage in sectors three and four. Hold positions. Repeat—hold.”
The floodlights dimmed one notch, came back weak, and steadied. Everyone who had stopped moving resumed some small task—folding a blanket, re-pouring coffee, adjusting a heater—like we didn’t want to give the night any more room than it already had.
Zoe leaned into June’s side and, for the first time, let her head rest against a shoulder that wasn’t family and was. “Is it over?” she asked without trying to make it brave.
