I turned toward the door, deputy star sticker pressed to my palm like a pulse.
And just before the knob turned under my hand, the door swung inward from the other side, letting in a slice of gray that might be morning and a cluster of faces I didn’t recognize—neighbors, reporters, people who had slept and people who hadn’t. A boom mic bobbed above a camera. Microphones lifted like a small field of flowers.
The first question came quick and wrong: “Who authorized bikers to get involved?”
I could feel the room gather behind me, quiet and warm.
I stepped into the doorway, star in my fist, and found the sentence I had been carrying all night.
Part 10 – Names, Not Labels (end)
The reporter’s question hung between the flagpole and the fellowship hall door like a clothesline sagging in the last of the rain.
“Who authorized bikers to get involved?”
