“Nia,” she said, not in command-voice, in invitation. “You saw it all. Say names into a microphone so the story doesn’t get told without them.”
My mouth went dry. “I’m a mail carrier,” I said, as if uniforms decided truths.
“You’re a witness,” June said, simple.
Luke didn’t smile—too tired for that—but the corners of his eyes understood. “Tell them we were there,” he said. “Tell them what you told me.”
“What did I tell you?” I asked, stalling the way a person does when the next step looks like a stage.
He looked down at his hands, now wrapped in a towel someone had warmed on a heater. “You said I was with you,” he murmured. “Under the bus. Make them with us, too.”
Zoe drifted over, pencil tucked, blanket cape trailing. “You can borrow my deputy badge,” she offered, which turned out to be a star sticker she peeled off her sleeve and pressed to my palm.
