Littles of Faith

Back in snow-dusted Hartford, Sally finds herself held together by the quiet, stubborn grace of the people who know how to show up. Patricia pulls her out of a spiral with the kind of blunt warmth that makes room for laughter again, Maddie gently names what Sally’s too careful to admit, and even the chaos of old friends crashing back into her life feels like a homecoming instead of a test. Between youth group harmonies, a song that lands like a confession, and a Sunday message that reframes suffering as a place where God meets you through others, Sally realizes she isn’t rebuilding alone. She’s surrounded by friends who steady her, tease her, challenge her, and somehow make the heavy parts feel survivable, even as she quietly does the same for them. And just when Hartford starts to feel like home again, Theresa slides in with a plan and a destination: no breakfast, a routine check, and then wheels up toward warmer air, brighter water, and a new kind of belonging waiting beyond the cold.   Chapter 153 – Friends in Cold Places Sally felt a hand settle on her shoulder—warm, steady. Patricia. “Come on,” she said quietly. “Let’s get you settled before we leave.” Sally nodded without looking up. The kitchen noise faded behind them as Patricia steered her down the hallway. Sally didn’t really need settling—her suitcase already waited neatly in the guest room—but she welcomed the excuse. Anything to step away from the knot tightening in her chest. Patricia closed the door gently behind them. The room was calm, muted. Late afternoon light filtered through the curtains, catching dust motes in the air. Patricia crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, patting the mattress beside her. “Sit.” It wasn’t a command. It was an anchor. Sally’s shoulders finally sagged. She sat down stiffly, hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the carpet. For a moment, Patricia said nothing. She let the silence breathe. Then, lightly: “Charlie is very friendly, isn’t he?” Sally nodded once. Too quickly. Her jaw tightened, and she swallowed hard. Her eyes burned, traitorous. “He really is,” Patricia continued, thoughtful. “That’s just… him. Especially with people who are new. Or hurting. Or feeling out of place.” She glanced sideways at Sally. “People who might feel inadequate.” Sally’s voice came out small. “He isn’t like that with me.” Patricia turned toward her fully now. “With me he’s…” Sally struggled, searching for the right word. “Stiff. Polite. Friendly, yes—but not warm. Not easy. Not like that.” Her fingers twisted together. “Not like with Maddie.” Patricia shifted, folding one leg beneath her, facing Sally completely. Her expression softened. “Because he likes you,” she said gently. Sally’s head snapped up. “He—what?” Patricia smiled, just a little. “He likes you. That’s why he turns into a malfunctioning robot around you.” Sally blinked. “That makes no sense.” “It makes perfect sense.” Patricia lifted an eyebrow. “Ask Jana. She’s noticed. When you’re not around, Charlie’s relaxed. Funny. Helpful. He talks. He jokes. He breathes.” She leaned closer. “Then you walk into the room and suddenly he forgets how chairs work.” Sally stared at her. The tension in her chest loosened—just a fraction. “I…” she hesitated. “I’m sort of the same around him. I feel like if I say the wrong thing, it’ll all… spill out.” Patricia squeezed her arm. “Exactly. Congratulations. You’re both idiots in love.” Sally let out a shaky laugh before she could stop herself. “So,” Patricia added lightly, “no. He’s not warming up to Maddie in that way. He’s being kind. There’s a difference. A big one.” Sally exhaled slowly, the air leaving her lungs like something she’d been holding too long. “I felt ridiculous,” she admitted. “Watching him help her felt like—like—” “A wedding proposal?” Patricia supplied dryly. Sally groaned and covered her face. “Yes.” Patricia laughed softly. “Trust me. If Charlie ever proposes, you’ll know. He’ll probably faint first.” That earned a real smile from Sally. “I won’t tell him to stop being kind,” Patricia added, more serious now. “But maybe I’ll tell him to stop acting like a frozen statue around you.” Sally laughed again, wiping at the corner of her eye. “Don’t. He should be kind. Maybe I should just… trip and fall dramatically. Give him a reason.” Patricia stood and tugged Sally gently to her feet. “Please don’t. One medically fragile friend at a time.” Sally smiled—lighter now, steadier. Her heart, unbroken again. -- She left the guest bedroom feeling ten tons lighter, as if someone had quietly unclipped a weight she hadn’t realized she was carrying. Her steps were quicker now, her shoulders loose, her head high. Whatever knots had formed earlier had been untied—gently, mercifully. She walked into the kitchen. Charlie looked up immediately. He always did. “We’re leaving soon,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Can you mind Maddie for a minute? I’ve got to get ready myself…” Sally tilted her head, amused. “You look ready to me.” Charlie glanced down at himself, then back up, sheepish. “Yeah, well… Jana says I need something more… musical.” He scratched the back of his head. “I’m playing electric next to her. She wants me to look different.” From the hallway, Patricia didn’t even look up. “T-shirt. Open blazer.” Charlie nodded like this was gospel. “Right. That.” He disappeared down the hall at a jog. Maddie watched him go, then turned to Sally with a grin. “He treats me like I’m made of glass,” she chuckled. “I swear, one of these days I’m going to poke him with my crutch just to prove a point.” Sally smiled, leaning against the counter. “I noticed. He means well.” She hesitated. “Do you need help getting ready?” Maddie sighed theatrically. “Yeah. Jacket’s in the hallway. Might as well get it on now.” Sally stepped back, eyebrow arching. “So you do need help.” Maddie blinked, then laughed. “Yeah… I guess I do.” Sally crossed the room and picked up the jacket, bringing it over carefully. “Never feel bad about that,” she said quietly. “Trust me. I know. Life’s a lot easier when you stop pretending you don’t need a hand.” Maddie studied her as she eased her feet more securely onto the floor. “I just want you to know,” she said softly, “I don’t encourage him. Charlie, I mean. I noticed how he is around you.” Sally’s fingers paused on the sleeve. “You like him, don’t you?” Maddie added, gently. Sally exhaled, a small, honest sound. She shrugged, careful, thoughtful. “It’s complicated… yeah. I sort of do. But that’s it. I don’t even know what to do with that feeling yet.” Maddie laughed lightly as Sally helped her slip into the jacket. “Good. Because you’re not getting married tomorrow.” She looked up at Sally, eyes warm. “You’ve got space. Time. You’re allowed to figure things out without rushing the ending.” Sally smiled—real, open, unguarded. “Thanks,” she said. Maddie winked. “Now go help me. I want front-row bragging rights.” -- “The miracle girl returns!” The voice hit Sally a split second before the arms did—strong, sudden, and from behind. “Hey—!” Sally almost shrieked as she was hauled backward into a crushing hug. She spun around, laughing. “Melissa, you crazy cowgirl!” Melissa grinned, unrepentant, her braid swinging. “Horse girl,” she corrected. “We’re not in Texas.” She stepped back just long enough to look Sally over. “And wow. You’re really here. Upright. Breathing. Annoyingly radiant.” Before Sally could reply, another pair of arms wrapped around her, gentler but no less determined. “Sally,” Alice said softly, almost breathless. “I heard you were in town…” Sally hugged the tall, reed-thin ballet girl, surprised and genuinely pleased. “How did you even know I was here?” she asked. “We’re not exactly… daily texters.” Alice pulled back, eyes bright. “My dad works at the airport, remember? He sent me a picture when your plane landed.” “My plane?” Sally frowned. “I didn’t come in my dad’s jet. I arrived earlier—” She stopped herself, suddenly aware of how that might sound. Alice was already scrolling. “This one?” She turned her phone. There it was. Grey fuselage. Tail registration unmistakable. The Gulfstream G700, gleaming in the late afternoon light at Bradley International. Sally stared, lips parting. “Oh.” She was saved from further explanation by a ripple of greetings—faces she knew, voices she recognized, people who smiled at her with a mix of awe and relief. “Looking good, Sally.” “So good to see you back.” She answered with hugs, smiles, quick reassurances. She let herself be normal. Just another girl back at her old church, not a headline or a cautionary tale. Across the room, she spotted Jana, arms folded, eyes appraising Charlie’s open blazer and P-51 Mustang t-shirt. “That will do,” Jana murmured, nodding once. Sally made her way over. “Jana.” Jana turned immediately, her tone dropping. “Yes, boss?” “Do you know anything about my dad’s jet landing at Bradley earlier?” Sally asked quietly. Jana blinked, then smiled like someone who’d been waiting for this question. “How do you think you’re getting home?” Sally exhaled. “Oh.” “Behind-the-scenes logistics,” Jana said calmly. “Captain Henderson figured it was smarter to land her early, let the crew rest, and start fresh Monday. Efficient. Boring. Entirely handled.” Sally shook her head, half-amused, half-overwhelmed. “I really don’t notice half of what happens around me, do I?” Jana smirked. “That’s because you’re busy living.” Music began to swell from the stage. Familiar chords. Familiar space. Sally looked around the room—faces old and new, warm and welcoming—and felt something settle in her chest. Home wasn’t a place, she realized. It was a feeling. -- “Don’t wander off,” Jana said lightly as she adjusted the mic stand. “I might have use of you soon.” Sally frowned at her back. “That’s not ominous at all,” she muttered, but she obeyed, weaving her way to an empty chair beside Maddie. Maddie sat on a folded chair with her crutches leaned neatly against the wall. Alice and Melissa had already claimed the carpet in front of her, sitting cross-legged and animated, trading names, stories, and whispered explanations like seasoned hosts. “So this is the infamous Sally,” Melissa said with a grin, craning her neck upward. “You’re way less mysterious in person.” “That’s disappointing,” Sally replied mildly, settling in. “I was hoping for at least a little mystique.” Maddie smiled, watching the room with quiet curiosity. “They’re nice,” she said under her breath. “Your people.” Sally glanced around. Teens sprawled on the floor. A few leaned against the walls. Someone had brought a thermos and was passing paper cups. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t performative. It was familiar. On stage, Charlie adjusted his guitar strap, fingers turning the tuning pegs with focused care. Sally watched him longer than she meant to. He glanced up once, caught her eye, and gave a quick, crooked smile before looking back down at his strings. Her chest tightened. Then loosened. She felt elated. Full. Happy. The room quieted as instruments found one another—bass humming low, drums tapping out a heartbeat, guitar lines feeling their way forward. What started as scattered sound slowly braided itself into music. Jana stepped up to the mic. “Good evening, people,” she said, voice steady but warm. “I’m back. And I’m really glad to be up here again. I’ve missed this. Missed it more than I realized.” She paused, bowing her head briefly. Sally felt a small pang—an echo of guilt she hadn’t fully named before. Jana lifted her gaze again. “Janet’s sitting this one out tonight—laryngitis,” she added, nodding toward a girl wrapped in a scarf who waved apologetically. “So I was hoping someone might help me out.” Sally’s shoulders stiffened. “I’ve had the pleasure of hearing this person sing for several Sundays now,” Jana continued, lips quirking. “And since I know this is her favorite…” Sally shook her head immediately, eyes wide. “No,” she mouthed. “I’d like to invite Sally to join me up here,” Jana said calmly. “We’re singing Honest Offering.” For a heartbeat, Sally didn’t move. Then the room filled with gentle claps. Hands touched her shoulder, her arm. “Go, Sally.” “You’ve got this.” “Yes!” Sally shot Jana a look that could have melted the mic stand, but beneath it something warm spread through her chest. Terrifying. Comforting. Both. She stood. Her legs felt strange as she walked forward, like she was stepping into a memory that hadn’t happened yet. Charlie glanced up again—this time startled—and then smiled, real and encouraging, fingers already finding the opening notes. The piano part was gone, replaced by soft electric guitar. Simpler. More exposed. Jana leaned into the mic and began. Sally inhaled once. Then added her voice.   “Tried to clean it up nice Tried to hold it all together I’m living rich in the world But a spiritual beggar…”   The words settled into her bones like they had months ago. Before the crash. Before the hospital. Before everything broke open.   “And I been waitin’ to give Till I can give You something better But You just wanted my heart So here it is…”   Her voice wavered for half a second. Then steadied.   “All of it Will You take it in this condition? Here I am Fully surrender…”   She wasn’t thinking anymore. Not about people watching. Not about how she sounded. Just about the truth in the words. When the chorus came, the room seemed to lean in.   “Jesus, You can have it all Jesus, You can have it all ’Cause You love every broken piece Of an honest offering…”   Sally felt it then—not fear, not pride, but something clean and bright. Belonging. As the last line faded, she opened her eyes. And she was home. -- Sally stayed onstage for two more songs—easy ones, familiar praise numbers that let her breathe again. She blended back into the group, followed the melody, smiled when the crowd sang louder than the microphones. Then Jana introduced a song Sally didn’t know, and another girl slipped in beside her, confident and ready, taking over without fuss. Sally stepped back, heart still thudding, hands a little shaky. “You did well,” Jana said quietly as Sally passed her on the way down. It wasn’t encouragement. It was assessment. And somehow, that meant more. Sally nodded, lips pressed into a small, grateful smile. She had felt it too—the awkwardness loosening, the moment where her voice stopped checking itself and simply went. Not singing along anymore. Leading. Carrying something shared. It felt different in her chest. Heavier. Better. She scanned the room, trying to ground herself, and that’s when she saw Pastor Drew standing near the side wall, one hand lifted in a beckoning motion. Sally hesitated, then nodded and made her way toward him, weaving between folding chairs and people sitting cross-legged on the floor. Halfway there, she stopped short. Someone was standing just beyond him, half in the shadows near the coat rack. Theresa. Sally’s face lit up instantly. “Theresa!” she exclaimed, stepping forward and hugging her hard, careful but wholehearted. The surprise knocked the last of the adrenaline loose. Theresa felt solid. Familiar. Safe. “You sang well, kiddo,” Theresa said, her voice warm and teasing. “I wasn’t sure I should crash a youth group night, but then I thought—why not?” “It’s good to have company,” Pastor Drew said with an easy chuckle, giving Theresa an approving nod. He looked at least her age, maybe older, and clearly unfazed by unexpected guests. Sally leaned back, still holding Theresa’s hands. “You flew in on the G?” she asked, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. Theresa waved the question away. “Details. We’ll talk later. I figured it was better to come hear you sing than sit alone in a hotel room.” Sally blinked. “You knew I was going to sing?” Theresa’s mouth curved into a knowing smile. “Jana mentioned she had… an idea.” Sally groaned softly and laughed at the same time, glancing back toward the stage where Jana was already cueing the next song, utterly unapologetic. “Well,” Sally said, exhaling, “I guess it worked.” Theresa squeezed her hands. “It did. You looked right where you’re supposed to be.” -- Pastor Drew kept the message light, almost conversational, pacing slowly in front of the group with his hands in his pockets. He didn’t preach so much as invite. “Following Jesus,” he said, glancing around the circle of faces, “isn’t about following the version of Him that fits neatly into our plans. It’s about following who He actually is. Which means—sometimes—He’ll lead us somewhere uncomfortable.” A few heads nodded. Sally felt the words settle, not heavy, but honest. “We don’t commit because life gets easier,” Drew continued. “We commit because He’s worth following even when it doesn’t. Especially then.” That was it. No altar call. No pressure. Just truth, left to breathe. Afterward, the room shifted into its familiar rhythm. Pizza boxes stacked high along the counter. Soda cans hissed open. Someone found a guitar again. Laughter bounced off the walls. Groups formed and re-formed, sitting cross-legged on the carpet or leaning against folding chairs. Sally found herself on the floor with Patricia, Charlie nearby, Maddie perched carefully on a chair. Pastor Drew wandered over with Lila, his wife, at his side and dropped down easily to sit with them. “So,” Drew said, smiling, “how’s Florida treating you, Sally?” “I can’t complain,” Sally replied. “It’s warm. The ocean’s close. Even if I don’t actually swim in it as much as people imagine.” Lila laughed softly. “I pictured you living in the water.” “More like living near it,” Sally smiled. “Traveling much?” Lila asked. Sally tilted her head. “More than most, probably. We spent New Year’s in Switzerland, but lately it’s been mostly Florida. This trip feels… grounding.” “And what’s next? Any big news?” Lila asked gently. Sally hesitated, then shrugged. “Maybe Easter camp. One of the elders at our church suggested it. And I’m thinking about getting baptized. Soon. I guess that’s the big news I do have.” Jana, seated just behind them, glanced sideways and made a very deliberate face. Sally shot her a look. She wasn’t revealing her mom’s pregnancy. Not yet. Lila’s eyes lit up. “That’s wonderful, Sally.” There were pats on her back, murmurs of encouragement. Even Jana nodded, lips pressing into something like approval. “Way to go, girl,” Jana muttered. The night wound down slowly. Outside, the snow had stopped, but the cold bit sharply. Breath turned white the moment doors opened. Patricia, Sally, and Charlie bundled into coats and scarves and hurried toward the SUV, boots crunching on icy pavement. Maddie lingered near the entrance, eyes glossy as her parents pulled up. A small group of teens instinctively surrounded her, steadying her steps, joking softly, careful and kind. Theresa gave Sally a quick hug before heading off toward her hotel. Jana pulled her coat tighter and waved as she headed for her mother’s place. “Tomorrow,” Jana called. “Church.” Sally nodded, smiling despite the cold. Tomorrow. And somehow, Hartford already felt like home again. -- Saturday night came slow, sweet, and heavy with that good kind of tired—the kind that settles in after something meaningful has happened. The drive back from church was quiet at first. Not awkward. Just… hushed. As if none of them wanted to break whatever had been left hanging in the air after the last song. Patricia drove her mother’s Lexus with practiced ease, hands light on the wheel. Sally sat in the passenger seat, coat still zipped, cheek leaned against the cold window. Charlie claimed the back seat, long legs folded awkwardly, watching the streetlights streak past. “You sing well,” Patricia said at last, voice casual but sincere. “I never realized you had such a great voice.” Sally shifted, uneasy in the seat. Compliments like that still felt too big, like shoes a size too large. “Stop it,” she chuckled, waving a hand as if that might shrink the words. “I’m serious,” Patricia insisted. “You didn’t just sing—you led. That’s different.” From the back seat, Charlie leaned forward slightly. “Yeah. You sing… cool,” he said, choosing the word carefully. “At first I thought Jana was calling you up just to mess with you or something. But then I realized Jana doesn’t tease. Not like that.” Sally smiled faintly. “No. Jana doesn’t waste microphones.” Charlie nodded, thoughtful. “She must hear you sing a lot.” “Yeah,” Sally said. “We sit close. And she sings loud.” A pause. “So you kind of have to sing or get steamrolled.” Patricia laughed softly, easing the car around a bend where snowbanks rose like frozen walls. “I’ve noticed.” Sally rested her elbow on the door and let her head fall into her hand, eyes half-lidded as neighborhoods slipped by—dark houses, porch lights glowing against thick snow. “Tired?” Patricia asked, glancing sideways. “Yeah,” Sally admitted. “The good kind. But I wouldn’t say no to a warm bed.” “Warm,” Patricia repeated, nodding solemnly. “I can do warm.” Charlie snorted quietly from the back. “You say that like it’s a service you provide.” “It is,” Patricia said. “Premium package. Blankets. Tea. Zero responsibilities.” Sally smiled, eyes closing for a second as the Lexus rolled on through the sleeping streets. For the first time all day, she let herself sink into the quiet—safe, tired, and exactly where she was supposed to be. -- “Your room is a bit far from mine,” Patricia said lightly as she walked Sally down the hallway, flipping off lights as they went. “But you’re close to the kitchen, should you need a midnight snack.” Sally smiled, catching the subtext immediately. “Far from Charlie, you mean,” she teased, rubbing her arms against the lingering cold. Patricia stopped, turned, and lifted both eyebrows in surrender. “You could say that. Strategic parenting has its ways of communicating boundaries.” She grinned. “Also—you’ll be far from his snores. That alone is a public service.” Sally laughed under her breath. “Fair. I’ll try to behave.” “You always do,” Patricia said warmly. “My parents are already in bed. Before I disappear—anything you need?” Sally scanned the guest bedroom. It was cozy, understated. Clean lines. A lamp glowing softly by the bed. “Maybe some water?” “Be right back.” Patricia returned a moment later carrying two small bottles of mineral water and a glass, setting them on the nightstand with ceremony. Sally blinked. “Wow. This is hydration at Olympic levels.” “Preventive care,” Patricia said solemnly. “You sang. That requires fluids.” “Duly noted,” Sally chuckled. Footsteps padded down the hall. Charlie appeared, clearly mid–getting-ready-for-bed: loose lounge pants, oversized T-shirt, hair slightly damp. He hovered awkwardly in the doorway like he wasn’t sure if he was interrupting something important. “Uh. Good night,” he said, lifting a hand in a half-wave. Sally smiled—small, shy, sincere. “Good night, Charlie.” Their eyes met for just a second longer than necessary. Not dramatic. Just… noticeable. Patricia cleared her throat. “Sleep. Both of you.” Charlie retreated, still smiling faintly. Patricia stepped into Sally’s room, gave her a quick, affectionate squeeze, then closed the door behind her. Alone at last, Sally let her shoulders drop. The house was quiet. Safe. Familiar in a borrowed way. Diaper. Pajamas. Pillow. Sleep. That was the plan now. She changed without hurry. It felt slightly awkward to put a diaper on in someone else’s house. But she managed to tape one on – one of her normal ones, without prints – and slip her long sleeved pajamas over. The cozy kind.  She climbed into bed, pulled the covers up, arranged the pillow just right. Yes. That sounded exactly right. -- When Sally woke, she felt rested in a way that surprised her. The room was warm, the quiet kind of warm that settled into your bones. Sometime in the night she’d kicked the covers halfway off, and her pajama top had twisted slightly, her pajama bottoms had slid down enough – enough to display part of her wet diaper. She lay still for a moment, orienting herself. Not her house. Not her bed. That awareness came with a small, reflexive tension—an instinct to straighten, to be presentable even when no one was watching. A light knock brushed the door. “Breakfast in fifteen minutes, Sally,” came Sandra’s voice, calm, efficient, unmistakably in charge of Sunday morning. “I’m awake,” Sally called back, sitting up quickly, then laughing softly at herself. Of course Sandra wasn’t about to barge in. She crinkled into the ensuite bathroom, splashed cool water on her face, and moved through the familiar motions that grounded her—diaper off, pajamas off, quick shower, brush hair, breathe, reset. By the time she stepped into the kitchen, she felt like herself again: black jeans, white cashmere turtleneck, hair loosely brushed back. Ready. She almost stopped short. The rest of the household was very much not ready. Patricia was at the counter in pajamas, wrapped in a loose housecoat, scrolling on her phone. Charlie hovered nearby in lounge pants and a sweatshirt, hair still going in two different directions. Sandra herself wore a robe, moving with practiced ease between stove and counter. “Well,” Sandra said brightly, handing Sally a mug the moment she spotted her, “don’t you look stunning. Black coffee, right?” “Yes—thank you,” Sally said, accepting it gratefully and sliding onto the stool next to Patricia. Patricia glanced up, squinted, then groaned theatrically. “That’s just unfair. You’re dressed like you’re hosting brunch, and I haven’t even located my ambition yet.” “I’m a guest,” Sally protested. “I have standards.” “Mean,” Patricia muttered. “At least warn us next time.” Charlie shuffled closer, rubbing his hands together against the cold tile floor. He gave Sally a shy, appreciative once-over. “Morning person?” he asked, eyebrows lifting. “No,” Sally said firmly. “I’m a dignity person. You didn’t seriously expect me to wander out here half-awake.” Patricia burst out laughing. “It would have been adorable.” “Pat,” Charlie warned, trying not to smile. The moment broke as Michael walked in, fully dressed and unmistakably awake—pressed shirt, neat hair, the air of someone who believed Sunday should start on time. “Good morning, good morning,” he said cheerfully, taking in the scene. “Ah. I see Sally and I are the efficient faction.” “Watch it,” Patricia muttered. Michael leaned in to kiss Sandra on the cheek. “Breakfast smells incredible, honey.” Sandra smiled, already plating food. “Sit. All of you. Church doesn’t wait, even for late bloomers.” Sally wrapped both hands around her coffee mug, warmth seeping into her fingers, and smiled quietly to herself. -- Soon enough, coats were zipped, scarves wrapped, and the family funneled out into the driveway, breath puffing faintly in the cold. Snow flurries drifted lazily from a pale sky, not enough to stick, just enough to remind everyone where they were. They piled into the SUV in their usual, unspoken arrangement. Sally slid in beside Charlie, who had already claimed the center seat—the one he’d occupied for most of his life, resigned to its narrower space with good humor. As the car pulled away, Sally leaned slightly toward him and lowered her voice. “You’re wearing an actual shirt,” she observed. “Very elegant.” Charlie glanced down at himself, then back at her, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah… mom insisted.” “Well,” Sally said, pretending to appraise him seriously, “she has good taste.” “Thanks,” he murmured, clearly pleased despite himself. In the front seat, Patricia stared pointedly out the window, as though the slow swirl of snowflakes held deep philosophical meaning. Sally caught her reflection in the glass—watching without looking. Michael broke the quiet easily, hands steady on the wheel. “I hear you missed a bit of a cold spell in Miami,” he said. “Almost down to freezing last night.” Sally laughed softly. “I’d rather have zero in Hartford than near-freezing in Miami. At least here you expect it.” Charlie tilted his head. “Your parents survived?” “They fled,” Sally said. “They’re in the Bahamas for the weekend. Mom says everyone back home is cooped up indoors, complaining. Not exactly beach weather, but warm enough to feel cheated.” “That sounds tragic,” Patricia deadpanned, finally turning back around. The SUV rolled on, conversation drifting easily now—nothing urgent, nothing heavy. Just voices warming the small space as the church came into view, its parking lot already dotted with cars, breath and anticipation rising together into the cold Hartford morning. -- Sally’s face lit up the moment she spotted Maddie at the church entrance, flanked by her parents and looking both determined and slightly overwhelmed. “You came,” Sally breathed, crossing the aisle before anyone could stop her. She hugged Maddie carefully, instinctively adjusting her stance so Maddie didn’t have to balance too much. “Wouldn’t miss it,” Maddie said softly. “I was terrified. But… I wanted to see.” Sally turned to Maddie’s parents, smiling with a warmth that surprised even herself. “I’m Sally. I’ll help you find seats—unless you’d rather sit near the back?” “Anywhere is fine,” Maddie’s mother said, eyes already scanning the sanctuary. “Thank you for looking out for her.” Sally waved it off. “She does that for me too.” She guided them down the aisle, slipping into the familiar rhythm of her old church—the creak of pews, the low murmur of voices, the smell of coffee lingering faintly from the foyer. Halfway down, she stopped short. “Clara?” Clara stood awkwardly near the end of a pew, coat folded over her arm, eyes darting like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to be there. “Sally,” she said, almost apologetically. “Maddie told me she was coming, and since we’re all going to Patricia’s for lunch…” She shrugged. “I thought I’d try.” Sally hugged her without hesitation. “I’m really glad you did.” Clara exhaled, as if she’d been holding her breath all morning. Church felt different from youth group. Heavier. More deliberate. The music carried weight instead of energy, and the silence between moments felt intentional. When Sally was invited to join the praise group, she didn’t hesitate this time. She stepped up easily, finding her place among the singers. Across the stage, she noticed Charlie—proper shirt under his blazer now, guitar polished, posture steadier. He caught her eye for half a second and smiled, quick and shy, before focusing back on his instrument. Pastor Greg stepped to the pulpit after the last song, adjusting his glasses as the room settled. “I didn’t plan this message with any visitors in mind,” he said calmly, glancing across the congregation. His eyes paused briefly—just briefly—on Sally. “But maybe God did.” He opened his Bible. “Today, we’re talking about Job.” The room grew still. “Suffering,” Pastor Greg continued, “is not evidence of God’s absence. Sometimes, it’s the place where His presence is most active.” Sally felt her chest tighten. Pastor Greg spoke of Job’s loss. Of the friends who traveled far to sit with him in his pain. “That part,” Greg said, “was admirable. They came. They stayed. They suffered alongside him.” Maddie shifted slightly in her seat. Clara leaned forward. “But then,” Greg went on, “they assumed they understood God. They concluded Job must have sinned—because surely God wouldn’t allow suffering without cause.” He paused. “And Job? Job concluded that God was unfair.” Sally swallowed. “Most of the book lives in that tension,” Greg said. “Human logic colliding with divine truth.” Then his voice softened. “But God doesn’t leave Job there. He brings Elihu—the youngest. The last to speak. The one who actually knows God.” Greg smiled faintly. “It’s gracious of God to prepare Job before speaking to him. To anchor his soul before revealing truth too big to hold otherwise.” Sally felt it land, slow and deep. “Elihu reminds Job,” Greg concluded, “that God is sovereign—and that we cannot understand God… without God.” He let the words rest for a moment, the quiet thick and attentive. “And here’s the grace in that story,” he continued, voice warm. “Job came to know God more deeply through a friend. Through Elihu—someone willing to speak truth with humility, and to prepare Job’s heart before God Himself answered.” Pastor Greg looked slowly across the room. “Today, we are not left searching in the same way. We are able to know God through Jesus—our friend. God’s own Son. Not distant. Not theoretical. But present. Personal. Willing to enter our suffering with us, not to accuse us, but to redeem us.” He closed his Bible gently. “Job met God after the storm. We meet God in the middle of it—through Christ. And that changes everything.” When the service ended, people lingered. Conversations were quieter than usual, more thoughtful. Maddie’s eyes were wet, though she smiled. “I didn’t expect that,” she admitted to Sally. “Neither did I,” Sally said gently. Charlie joined them, careful, respectful. “Lunch at my place,” Patricia called from across the aisle. “Everyone who wants in—now’s your chance.” Sally looked around—at Maddie, at Clara, at the familiar walls of her first home church—and felt something settle. Not answers. But peace. -- There was already a hum of voices in the Selters’ home when Sally stepped inside, coats piled on chairs, laughter drifting from every room. It felt like the house had expanded just to hold everyone. And then— “Katrina?” Sally called, disbelief lighting her voice. “Amiiiiga!” Katrina burst through the doorway in a whirlwind of curls, boots, and energy, nearly colliding with Sally as she slipped inside. The hug was immediate and fierce, the kind that knocked the air out of both of them. “You crazy girl,” Sally laughed, pulling back just enough to look at her. “You never thought to tell me you’d be here?” “Sorpresa,” Katrina shrugged, already slipping into Spanish like a reflex when she was excited. “You know I live for dramatic entrances.” “Now we’re all together,” Clara said softly, stepping in for her turn and hugging Katrina with quiet warmth. Patricia appeared behind them, arms crossed, face arranged into a mock-serious glare. “I hope you three behave,” she warned. “We have other visitors. Try not to shock anyone before dessert.” “No promises,” Katrina replied brightly. Maddie laughed from the sofa, where she was already settled comfortably. Charlie hovered nearby again, quietly efficient—sliding a bowl of chips closer to her reach, adjusting a drink so it wouldn’t tip. Even Amanda had made it, lingering near the doorway like she wasn’t quite sure she belonged but thrilled to be there anyway. She caught sight of Sally and grinned. “So,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “got your Lamborghini yet?” Sally snorted. “Still rocking a Ford Fiesta. The Lamborghini is… on backorder. Very exclusive.” “She’s getting a Mustang,” Charlie announced casually, glancing at Sally. “As soon as I can drive without a babysitter,” Sally shot back, flicking a knowing look toward Theresa, who had just walked in with Jana. The house felt even fuller now—voices overlapping, coats still being taken off, someone laughing loudly from the kitchen. “You’re so lucky you can already drive,” Katrina sighed dramatically. “I still have to wait until I’m sixteen. That’s, like… centuries.” “We just turned fifteen,” Clara said thoughtfully. “It’s a tragedy for Katrina. No major celebration until she’s twenty-one.” “Ni te lo creas,” Katrina protested loudly. “Eighteen is the real magic age in Colombia. I’m moving there until I’m twenty-one.” Everyone laughed. Clara shook her head, smiling knowingly. “Even you don’t believe that. You wouldn’t last a month keeping up with your Medellín family.” Lunch was eventually announced, buffet-style, and people drifted toward the kitchen, filling plates and then scattering wherever there was space—sofas, chairs, the edge of tables, even the floor. As forks clinked and conversation softened into contented murmurs, Sally took it all in—the noise, the warmth, the feeling of being surrounded by people who knew her in different ways, at different times of her life. For a moment, it felt like everything fit. Friends in cold places, but it suddenly felt tropical in Hartford. -- Theresa caught Sally’s eye just as Katrina and Clara drifted off toward the kitchen in search of second helpings. “Mind if I sit?” Theresa asked, already half-lowering herself into the chair beside her. Sally brightened immediately. “Of course. What’s up?” She tilted her head, curious. “I didn’t expect you in Hartford. I thought you’d be closer to my parents.” Theresa smiled faintly. “I am. Strategically.” She folded her hands loosely. “They deserve a little space. I can run logistics from my phone just fine.” Sally nodded, scraping the last of the chicken sauce from her plate with a piece of bread. “Yeah. They do.” Theresa waited until Sally swallowed, then shifted—subtle, but unmistakably businesslike. “Okay. Got a minute? Here’s the plan,” she said, calm and precise. “Tomorrow morning: Dr. Salcedo. Quick routine check-up. The usual. So no breakfast, okay?” Sally groaned softly. “Cruel.” “Efficient,” Theresa corrected. “After that, wheels up. We’re heading to Nassau.” “Nassau?” Sally blinked. “I thought—” “You’re joining your parents,” Theresa continued smoothly. “They’re turning it into a family business mini-conference slash retreat. Priya will be there, along with a few people from the Zurich team you haven’t met yet. Post-Christmas regroup. Setting stones for the year.” Sally leaned back in her chair, momentarily dazed. “Wow,” she murmured. “That sounds… serious.” Theresa waved a hand. “Not really. It’s mostly optics and alignment. You’re meant to look nice, relax, shine. Nothing heavy. Your parents will be hosting.” Sally exhaled, half-smiling as her mind filled in the picture. “Big house, I’m guessing.” “We’ll be at a nearby resort,” Theresa said. “Your parents get the house to themselves.” Sally nodded approvingly. “Good,” she said after a beat. “So I don’t have to share a bed.” Theresa arched a brow. “Heaven forbid,” she replied dryly. Sally laughed, the tension draining out of her shoulders. -- By mid-afternoon, the Selter house had shifted into that soft, humming chaos that only happens when too many teenagers occupy the same space without any real agenda. Alice and Melissa arrived with snow still clinging to their boots, cheeks pink from the cold, voices already overlapping before coats were even off. The crowd skewed unmistakably female. Pillows migrated to the floor. Phones appeared, disappeared, reappeared. Someone claimed the arm of the sofa as if it were a throne. Charlie lingered anyway. He stayed near the corner where the guitar leaned against the wall, fingers idly tracing the strings, pretending not to watch Sally while very obviously watching Sally. This was familiar territory for him. Patricia had always had friends over—girls mostly—and at some point he’d learned that boys hovering too much crossed an invisible social line. Retreating to his room had been the default. But Sally changed the math. If Sally was there, it was suddenly acceptable to be useful. To refill glasses. To adjust a chair leg. To tune the guitar again, just in case. And when someone hummed a melody without realizing it, Charlie was already there, finding the key. “Sally sang today,” Clara said breathlessly to Katrina and Amanda, who had missed church. “Like—properly. In front of everybody. She was amazing.” Maddie nodded from the sofa, her crutches propped neatly beside her. “Yesterday too. Jana basically volunteered her without consent,” she added, laughing. “It was kind of epic.” Katrina spun toward Sally, curls bouncing. “Not fair,” she declared. “You always do your star things when I’m not around. Is this punishment for skipping church?” Sally lifted a brow, feigning innocence. “No. Church is just where I sing,” she said calmly. “Well. Church and the shower.” She paused, then added, deadpan, “And since you’re not allowed in my shower, your options are limited.” Amanda laughed, hands up in surrender. “Okay, that checks out. I guess I’ll have to come to church now. For… musical research.” Katrina crossed her arms, pretending to sulk. “Encore,” she demanded. “Right now.” A quiet tension settled—not awkward, but expectant. The kind that hums just before something happens. Sally glanced at Jana. Jana glanced back. They both felt it. “Okay,” Sally said finally, lifting her hands. “But one song. Short.” Charlie didn’t wait for further instruction. He shifted forward, guitar already in position, fingers finding the opening chords as if they’d been waiting there all afternoon. Soft. Familiar. Sally closed her eyes for half a second, then began.   “Tried to clean it up nice… Tried to hold it all together…”   Jana slipped in effortlessly with the second voice, harmony weaving itself around Sally’s like it had always lived there. The room went still. No phones. No whispers. Even Katrina held her breath. Charlie watched her this time without looking away, fingers steady on the strings, eyes warm and focused. Sally didn’t notice—she was somewhere else entirely—but the sound filled the house anyway, gentle and honest and unmistakably hers. And for a moment, nobody wanted it to end. -- As evening quietly folded itself into night, the house shed its extra layers of noise and bodies until only the core remained—the three musketeers sprawled across the living room floor, and their self-appointed d’Artagnan presiding from the arm of the sofa. Charlie had already done his good deed for the night, carefully helping Maddie out to her parents’ car, moving with that practiced, gentle efficiency that still made Sally’s chest tighten if she thought about it too long. Afterward, he disappeared into his room, door clicking shut with finality. The sound echoed more than it should have. “No puede ser,” Katrina declared dramatically, flopping back against a pillow. “We cannot let this be a once-in-a-lifetime event. We have to meet more often.” “Once a month,” Clara agreed, nodding seriously. “Minimum.” Sally pressed her lips together. “Easy for you to say,” she muttered. Katrina waved a dismissive hand. “Just grab your daddy’s jet, y pronto.” Patricia, ever the diplomat, leaned forward. “It’s not exactly hopping on a city bus, Katrina. I’m sure Sally will come as often as she can.” Sally arched a brow. “And you? How often do you come up from Greenwich?” Katrina huffed. “Barely. My parents don’t let me out of their sight.” She lowered her voice. “As if I haven’t changed.” “You’re as tame as a kitten now,” Clara said gently. “They see it. They just need time.” Sally turned to her. “And you?” Clara shrugged, tugging her sleeves down over her wrists out of habit. “I’m… okay. Counseling’s helping. Going back to our old school helped too. People stare—except Amanda. But that’s fine.” She paused. “I’m trying to get back on the chess team. They want to ‘observe me’ first. Like I’m going to vanish or something.” They all nodded. Clara’s attempt had been a singular rupture, not a pattern—but the world moved cautiously afterward. Protocols. Observations. Time. “I talked to the pastor’s wife,” Clara added. “Susan,” Sally supplied. “Yeah. She didn’t know who I was at first, but once she did… she was really kind. Gracious.” “She still counsels me,” Sally said softly. “Helped me after the accident. With the nightmares. The questions.” Katrina, unusually quiet, finally spoke. “You sang really well tonight.” Sally looked up. “That song? It was the first one I ever heard at church. It’s what started everything.” Katrina nodded. “It’s… deep.” Sally smiled faintly. “Tell me about Greenwich.” Katrina visibly relaxed. “It looks like a cute little village, right?” They nodded. “Well, it’s classy. Elegant. Tiny shops instead of malls. And dealerships,” she added, eyes gleaming as she looked at Sally. “Aston Martin. Porsche. Lamborghini. All five minutes from my house.” Sally smirked. “I know. Amélie dragged me into the Aston Martin showroom on your birthday.” “Anything tempt you?” Katrina teased. “Everything,” Sally said honestly. They laughed. “Soon you’ll be picking cars like shoes,” Patricia joked. “Don’t forget the orange Lamborghini,” Clara giggled. “And a Porsche for when you’re late to German class,” Katrina added. The night wound down gently after that. Parents arrived. Hugs were exchanged. Promises made with the soft certainty that comes only when you mean them. When the door finally closed behind Katrina and Clara, the house settled into stillness. Patricia and Sally lingered, sitting close, knees tucked up, not needing words for a while. “That was a good night,” Patricia said quietly. Sally nodded. “Yeah.”

Most excellent chapter…. Thoroughly enjoying the story keep up the god work. 

I nodded after Milan confirmed my logic that if a pub was located in the village then the bar was located in the town. "Bien." I commented and combed loose hair aside. We seemed to be sort of able to talk about things albeit the scope of the conversation was limited to what was prompted via my phrasebook.  I looked back toward the smoky entrance of the pub and noticed that Milan seemed to be hesitating. I guessed, correctly, that he was waiting to see if I was wanting to lead the way inside but the fact he wasn't inviting me inside suggested he wasn't keen on it. This made me laugh to myself and remember our experiential age difference. I'd been to pubs like this, where you feet get stuck to the unclean floor. I'd also been to slick and clean city bars where drinks were good but the prices could be eye-watering. Milan was probably of an age were his friends were encouraging him to explore underage drinking, and I supposed the implication was that this quiet village pub didn't turn teenagers, but getting drunk wasn't everyone's idea of a good time.    "Viens." I commanded gently with a directional nod of my head away from the pub and down the street. I didn't wait for Milan to try and look up the word in the dictionary, instead I just started walking down the street. "De toute façon, je ne pense pas boire d'alcool avant un bon moment, surtout si Andrej est leur fournisseur local." I joked in french and laughed lightly, making fun of my own situation as we walked away from the pub. "Kde je... kostol?" I asked after consulting the phrasebook. Again, I wasn't particularly interested in finding the church, in fact I could already see it's tall spire dominating the skyline, but it was one of the things the phrasebook offered me to. I repeated in french for Milan's benefit. "En français, on dit: Où est l'église?"  After arriving at the church and pausing a moment to take in it's architecture and wondering if Milan and his family came here habitually or if they were irreligious, I looked around to see if there was a village green or a park. Somewhere we might sit together outside so we could sit with dictionary between us and try to ask each other some questions about one another. 

105. Chinatown Syndrome Zannah’s new car turned out to be a midnight blue hatchback that stood out against the luxury cars that most people in Evergreen Estates seemed to drive. A faux-leather interior still smelled faintly of factory-fresh upholstery, while Zannah was clearly trying to stamp her own personality on it with a bright green air freshener and a troll sitting on the corner of the dash. It was easy to guess that her father had chosen it for her; reliable but not flashy enough to encourage speeding. Isadora settled into the passenger seat, automatically glancing around in search of anything that could tell her a little more about her friend. She thought she knew Zannah well enough, but she also knew that she needed to get back into the habit of picking up small details if she wanted to convince Brock that she was a competent field agent. So she noticed that Zannah took a couple of seconds to adjust a phone mount, not quite second nature, and she saw the edge of a protective plastic film protruding from a glove compartment that had probably not been opened yet. “Dad said blue cars are stolen least often,” Zannah said, as she fastened her seatbelt and pulled out of the driveway. “And I haven’t got enough money of my own yet. Had to get him to sign off on the insurance, too, so it’s not like I’ve got much choice right now.” “I’m sure you’ll be able to pick something more to your taste soon,” Isadora answered, and then couldn’t think of much else to say. Before long they were gliding along the highway towards Fairhaven. As soon as they were in an area she hadn’t visited herself, it was natural for Isadora to try and match each turn with the map she had tried to learn when they first moved here, but she would have been the first to admit that spatial awareness wasn’t really her forte. “Wishing you were still in some fancy resort?” Zannah asked, as they passed a medieval knight made out of bricks which presumably linked to some kind of local history for the village they were passing through now. “No, no,” Isadora said, realising that she’d been staring out of the window for some time, and hoping she hadn’t seemed rude. “It’s just… This is my first time heading to Fairhaven, I guess. Trying to recognise the landmarks.” “Oh, yeah. You’re like a part of the community now, it’s so easy to forget you’ve only been here a year. Hell, less than a year.” Isadora nodded slowly. There were so many things she could think of to respond to that, but they all had the possibility to end up going round in circles, leading to more questions about her bluffed vacation, or to details of a cover story she wasn’t sure she still remembered that well. She decided that it would be safer, and probably more natural for Stella, if she changed the topic to bring her own curiosity into focus. “So, Friday?” she asked. “That’s when you’re seeing this movie with Jeremy, I guess?” Zannah just nodded, so Isadora continued with another question: “Excited enough to get over the nerves?” “Yeah, I…” Zannah stammered. “Is it that obvious?” “Only completely. It’s not like you to be quiet for so long.” “Yeah. I was wondering if you’re going to say anything else about your trip, but any other day I would have jumped in with the gossip already. Wouldn’t I?” “I can tell this means a lot to you,” Isadora said, with no idea where this conversation could go. She didn’t think she was the best person to be offering advice in a situation like this; whereas the more-social Stella Klein would have known exactly how to advise the younger woman. “Yeah. I mean… it’s not like the first time. I mean… I’ve dated guys before… not… you know what I mean. But it’s always been fun, right? And it will be fun, it’s got to be. Just somehow this time it… I really care, like it would be the end of the world if it goes wrong. I never had that before.” “Well, you know he’s interested. He said yes, didn’t he? And you both wanted to see the same movie, so you know you’ve got something new to talk about. So you don’t need to play games. Just be yourself, and if he’s the guy you think he is, you’ll have the time of your life.” Isadora hesitated then; realising she was just reciting advice she’d heard from so many people, and read in advice columns over the years. She felt a little embarrassed not to have anything more individual she could add; but covered her nerves with a quick summary: “Just be yourself.” “But what if myself is too…” Zannah paused, searching for the word. “Too eager? Too obvious? What if I talk too much about art and he gets bored?” “Oh, that’s not possible,” Isadora answered with a laugh. In this case she could be sure. She’d only met Jeremy briefly, although Zannah had been talking about him for as long as they’d been going to the Fairhaven Exchange, but he immediately reminded her of several of the guys she’d known back at Millennium House. The ones who had infinite patience for one specific subject, and were willing to talk to anyone who showed the slightest interest. “I suspect he’ll be into anything you want to talk about; but if you stumble into an awkward silence, talking about art will always get him to come to life. And you’ll probably learn something too.” “He’ll talk to anyone about art,” Zannah agreed. “Talk your ear off, if you’re not careful. I know his manager had to remind him that some people would rather just look. But… is he just being nice? I mean… talking to people is pretty much his job.” “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And he pretty much said that he’d been planning to ask you out. He couldn’t get the tickets, remember? So… Don’t be nervous. Enjoy yourself. And if he wants to talk about something that isn’t about paint and canvas, that’s your reminder that he cares about what you think. Stepping outside his special interests and reaching for things that interest you too.” “Yeah,” this time Zannah’s smile seemed more secure. “Talking about hats, or movies, or… I just feel like the centre of the world then. Is this how it was when you met Bernard?” “It was…” Isadora stammered, trying to recover her balance. She’d gotten used to people seeing Brock as her husband, but imagining a romantic relationship between them was still somehow a surprise. She quickly fell back on a couple of details she could remember from her legend, hoping that would be enough. “It was kind of different for us,” she said. “We worked together before anything else, so it was more of a slow burn. We’d see each other every day, but I can’t say where the line was between work and… everything else.” She paused to analyse her own words, and she could already tell that it sounded clinical, like she was summarising a book she’d read. And in a way she knew that was the case. But if she was going to reassure her friend, she needed to reach some real, emotional memory. She immediately thought about Liam Reeves, a name that hadn’t crossed her mind since she started applying for the Agency job. Her mind was filled with a research project that had spawned a whole forest of distractions, of the one group member who seemed to be pulling his weight, of hectic lunchtimes in one of the campus cafeterias, and conversations where every personal joke felt like a stolen moment as they raced against the clock. Of slowly growing trust, feeling like her heart was going to burst, and a growing intimacy that had been perfect in every way until it wasn’t. “Like, one day he was asking me about the minutes of a budget meeting, the next I was chasing up a customer account summary that had been misfiled, and at the time I never noticed how I was smiling every time we met. Or that I looked forward to the time in his office, no matter how mundane the things we were discussing. I never realised I cared more about the boss than any of my friends in the office, and then… When he said he felt the same, it was like all my dreams had come true.” “I know the feeling,” Zannah said with a laugh, and the car drifted to a stop at the lights. “I don’t think Jeremy could ever have taken the first step, though. Maybe I’m more like Bernard.” Isadora nodded, and glanced at the buildings around them. They had left identical rows of suburban homes behind during her detour to memory lane, and were surrounded on all sides by three and four storey buildings in aged red brick; most of them probably a hundred years old. “Where do you want to start?” Zannah asked, and then seemed to think for a second. “You don’t know Fairhaven, do you? So I should be offering suggestions. If you’re after Chinatown, the cheapest place to park is probably the Makinson Center. Unless you have somewhere else in mind.” “I literally know nothing,” Isadora answered with a quick smile. “So… Makinson Center it is.” They took a couple of turns, and then they were heading through a gateway surmounted by a lopsided ‘max headroom’ bar, down a ramp into what quickly turned out to be six levels of underground parking. There was a machine by the entrance which issued a ticket, and then they were looking for a clear space. The scenery didn’t tell Isadora anything about the city; the brutalist concrete basement had probably been installed some time in the eighties, and looked the same as similar structures all around the world. “Rafferty’s?” Zannah suggested, as she slowly backed into a parking space. “I know you said you wanted to check out Chinatown, but maybe it’ll help to see it from above. You get a pretty good view from up there, so we could use that like a mini map, decide what to look at first. And – not sure if it’s true or not – I heard that a good coffee is the one thing you won’t find in the Chinatown markets, and you look like you need one.” “Good call,” Isadora said. Her hair snagged and got pulled to one side as she took off her seatbelt; maybe she wasn’t quite used to wearing bunches yet. But she was sure that it would be second nature in a couple of days. Zannah led them around the edge of the grey structure to an elevator, up into a shopping center that could have been in any western city. There was no local colour here, or anything to tell her about Fairhaven. Then they were heading across an enclosed bridge with a glass floor, allowing them to see a dozen taxis jostling for space in a packed street below. Isadora guessed right away that the town centre wasn’t somewhere to drive if you could avoid it; the underground garage they had chosen presumably marked the usual edge of the gridlock. Another shopping center passed in a blur, although there were fewer chain stores here and more appearances of ‘Fairhaven’, ‘boutique’, and ‘artisanal’ on the signs. From there, Zannah led the way out onto a courtyard dotted with food stalls, many of them built into antiquated-looking trailers and vehicles. The mixed scents of food from a dozen different cuisines were appealing, but Isadora knew that she had work to do today, so she resisted the temptation to stop. And a little way along a pedestrian street, they found the entrance to Rafferty’s bookshop. It was a surprisingly large building, within which every level seemed to appeal to a different demographic. The ground floor was almost like a gift shop, with novelty bookmarks, tshirts, and all kinds of paraphernalia you might think to give to someone who was proud of their reading obsession. Above that, there was a level filled with hobbies and pastimes; with a lot of the shelf space set aside for board games and three large gaming tables where, it seemed, local groups could meet up to play the latest games. Then they passed through the land of celebrity and biographies; a floor dedicated to science fiction and fantasy fiction; close-packed shelves of what looked like textbooks aimed at the local university’s students; and finally, surrounded by sections labelled ‘general fiction’ and ‘miscellany’, there was a café. It would have been easy to imagine this place as a study or library, if it wasn’t for the huge glass doors giving access to balconies on two sides. But the shelves had been carefully laid out; making little nooks and alcoves where someone at a small table could pretend the room only extended to the shelves they could reach. Isadora thought that it would have been a very pleasant place to sit and read, and she was immediately sure that a book club must meet here at least once a week. But right now, she had to keep her mind on the task that had brought her here. “Right,” she said with a cheery grin. “I can get some coffee at last. You too?” “Probably,” Zannah said, responding with a smile of her own. “And I want to try some of the cakes here as well. But only one; don’t want to ruin my appetite for later.” There was quite a line at the counter, but it moved quickly. And then Isadora was picking up a hot coffee to refresh and invigorate her ready for her first real day of investigation. This wasn’t Brock giving her tasks to show her the ropes this time; she was actually hoping to find something that mattered. She just hoped that she would be able to manage more detail, or some observation that went beyond what he already knew. She needed her input to be worth something for the mission. “It’s a nice day,” Zannah said, before Isadora could get too lost in her own thoughts. “How about we step outside.” Isadora nodded, and followed her friend over to the balcony area as soon as their drinks and cakes were all ready. Zannah apparently knew which side Chinatown was on; Isadora would have been embarrassed to admit that between all the turns in the staircase as they came up here, she would have been able to say which direction led back to the door they had come in through. But when they walked out onto the balcony, metal vibrating slightly under their feet, there was no doubt that she was looking over Chinatown. There was a busy street stretching out towards the east from here (and it took a few minutes of staring at the details before Isadora realised that somewhere in her subconscious she’d instinctively looked at the position of the sun to determine which way she was facing), and almost all the shop signs along that street were in characters she couldn’t begin to read. There was something about the architectural styles as well; most of the buildings looked like they had come straight out of one of the martial arts movies Liam had loved so much. She didn’t know whether that was actual architecture or something in the decoration, but it meant she knew what she was looking at. She tried to memorise some of the signs she could see, and the layout of the streets connecting them, so that she wouldn’t get lost so easily when she was on the ground. But right now she was realising that she might as well be stepping into a different world, and she didn’t really know how she was going to organise the day’s exploration. They didn’t stay on the balcony for long. They both had plates with a couple of bite-sized cakes and pastries, and it was clear that Zannah had been expecting them to have a proper breakfast here before they continued. But once they were looking down at the streets below, they kept pointing out shops to each other, and the decals on the signs; both women trying to guess what kind of items would be displayed in the windows based on clues they couldn’t quite make out from up here. And before long they were going down all those steps again, hands still holding paper cups of hot coffee. Chinatown was new to both of them, and there was a real sense of excitement about exploring an unfamiliar part of town. It was something that apparently appealed to Stella and Zannah equally; while Isadora just kept on playing the role, impatient to see one of the Smokey Honey signs so that she could begin collecting intelligence. The main street hit them like a wall of sensation. After the relative quiet of Rafferty’s upper floors, the noise alone was enough to make Isadora slow her pace for a moment. She could make out the clatter of crates being stacked, rapid conversations in Cantonese and Mandarin overlapping each other, and from a restaurant somewhere nearby the sharp hiss and sizzle of food being introduced to a very hot wok. The air was thick with it too, layers of smell folding over one another so quickly that it was hard to separate one from the next. Roasting meat, ginger, something sweet and caramelised, and underneath it all the sharp notes that indicated traders in live poultry and fresh fish. The buildings pressed close on either side, their upper floors leaning toward each other overhead like old friends sharing a secret. Red and gold decorations hung from almost every balcony. Some clearly festive, others faded enough that they might have been there for years, just part of the scenery now. Strings of paper lanterns criss-crossed above the street at irregular intervals, and nearly every shop had filled its window with so much merchandise that it was impossible to tell where the display ended and the stock began. To Isadora’s unpractised eyes, it was hard to tell whether some of the buildings were shops, community centers, or homes. As they stepped into this unfamiliar world, her gaze was drawn to the signs, as intended; but there was so much competing for her attention that the instinct felt almost overwhelmed. It was like diving into a whole new world of unfamiliar sensations, and for a moment Isadora wondered how Brock could cope when he was so often plunged into an actual foreign city, not just a district where people tried to preserve the ethos of their motherland. But she was pulled back to reality by the sound of Zannah, speculating on every detail like an overenthusiastic tourist. And her babble reminded Isadora that there were English language signs in among all the characters she didn’t know how to read. And that was when she saw what she should have been looking for all along; a no smoking sign in two languages, partially concealed behind a line of people queueing to purchase some spicy-sweet treat wrapped in paper cones from a store’s open window. “Gods, it's busy,” Zannah said, pulling her coffee a little closer to her chest as a man with a wide flat trolley nudged past them without slowing down. Rather than put off by the crowds, she had the excitement of someone stepping into a fairground for the first time. And for just a moment, Isadora found she could imagine that her friend might have some positivity towards the thought of letting her inner child out to play. The thought only lasted for a moment though, as she forced her attention back to what Zannah was saying now: “I can’t believe this has been here the whole time and I never came down. I have to thank you, Estelle.” “It's a lot, isn’t it?” Isadora said, pausing for only a moment to process the legend’s name that no longer felt natural to her. She let herself drift with the flow of foot traffic for a moment, letting the current of the street carry them forward while she took in the layout. The main road was wide enough for a couple of delivery vans to pass each other, but the footpaths on either side had been eaten up almost entirely by stalls and displays spilling out from the shops, and half the pedestrians were walking in the road now so that vehicles had ro weave around them. “What do you want to look at first?” “Everything,” Zannah said, and then laughed at herself. “Okay, maybe start with the food? I skipped lunch yesterday to leave room for the cakes, so I’m already hungry again.” Isadora nodded and smiled, and found herself automatically leading them to the queue she had glanced at earlier. She didn’t even think about why she was doing that; but she knew on some level that she had a mission to complete. And if they were looking for snacks, then determining the contents of the mysterious paper cones would be a good excuse to bring them closer to the first anti-smoking sign of the day. “What are they selling here?” Zannah asked, as Isadora led them to the line. “Is there something, or are we just in line because everybody in front is?” “I don’t know what it is, but the people eating it are all smiling,” Isadora answered. “And it smells divine.” “Is that coming from here? I can’t even tell, there’s so many people cooking round here.” And a shrug was the only answer that made any kind of sense. The queue moved slowly enough that Isadora had time to position herself closer to the wall, close enough now to see the sign properly. The cartoon bird, Smokey Honey perched on her red line with an expression of cheerful disapproval, and above it the English text declared that there was no smoking allowed in the stores or the outside queue here. The symbols beneath that presumably said the same to the Chinese-speaking residents; though Isadora couldn’t be quite sure of that yet. But it was the sign’s quality that caught her eye. Not the modern standardised kind you’d see bolted to a bus shelter anywhere in the country; this was something else. Locals had saved up money for these signs. Enamelled wood, it looked like, the kind of thing a local council might commission from an artist rather than ordering in bulk from a supplier. Isadora already knew that there were multiple designs of this sign, and that would hopefully make it even easier to get a positive identification for the one she was looking for. She was sure that this one wasn’t it; the bird was in the bottom left corner of the sign rather than the bottom right. But if she wanted to be certain, she knew that she should record the find in any case. If she didn’t find the exact one she wanted, maybe there would be some pattern she could find in the arrangement of different designs through the town, and that was a pattern she would only be able to find if she captured all the information. She automatically reached for her phone, and found herself thinking for a second about what Zannah would make of this strange behaviour. Walking around town with a friend would probably make her stick out less, but she shouldn’t have just planned based on that without even planning some kind of cover story. And then she hesitated, realising quickly that the situation wasn’t as bad as she might have thought. “Oh, that’s an interesting sign,” she said with a chuckle. “Is that a…” For a second she wasn’t sure exactly how surprised to sound, and she wasn’t sure if she could pull it off in any case. But she did her best to react to the sign as if she hadn’t seen one before, and was mildly surprised by the appearance of a cartoon bird on a no smoking sign. “That’s just a no smoking sign,” Zannah said. “The menu must be along here somewhere. Nice that it’s bilingual, though. As if the red circle isn’t understood everywhere.” “Don’t think I’ve seen one of those before,” Isadora answered, trying to construct Stella’s state of mind in her imagination. She didn’t want to go over the top, but she could imagine thinking the bird was kind of neat. “I mean… There’s the usual logo and everything, but there’s a little cartoon bird on there. Is that just the brand of the sign?” “Oh? Oh yeah, I kind of… I guess I got used to it. They’ve been like that forever. I think it’s a Fairhaven chamber of commerce thing or something. All the signs in town have the bird on, not just Chinatown. When they first put them up I tried to see how many different ones I could find. Like, if I could take photos of a bunch, I could make a comic strip just using different poses out of the same character. I think we were supposed to be doing collages or something?” “When you were in school?” Isadora guessed, realising that Zannah had given her exactly what she needed. And as the other woman nodded, she continued: “That sounds kind of neat, actually. Our art classes were all about still life and watercolours. And you know what? I kind of want to try that now.” “I think we’re a bit too old for that,” Zannah said with a laugh. “I mean, I think I was like nine or something. Can’t even remember if I was in high school then.” “Yeah. But somebody put in all the effort to draw those birds, and it’s not fair to let it go unnoticed. So I’m going to capture as many pictures as I can find. And so what if kids do that? I mean, you might have been nine when you first saw them, but I’ve never seen them before, so it’s just as new to me.” “I guess,” Zannah laughed. “I mean, they say you’re as young as you feel, right?” “Right. So I’m nine or whatever today. Or at least young and reckless enough to spend a day hunting pictures of Melipotes fumigatus. Now, do you want to join that line so I can have you standing next to it on the pic?” “We don’t even know what they’re selling,” Zannah said, and then glanced up and down the people standing there right now. All ages, and a rough mix of Chinatown locals and tourists, if she could guess by their appearances. Isadora could see the decision working its way across her face. “So we’ll find out when we get to the front of the line. You’re a bad influence, Mrs Klein.” “That I am,” Isadora laughed, and pulled out her phone as they walked over to the line. Waiting wasn’t time wasted, because waiting in line gave Isadora plenty of time to catch up with Zannah, as well as to improvise and excuse for recognising the Mascot on them as M. fumigatus, the smoky honeyeater, that didn’t involve revealing that she had been researching this local advertising campaign in advance. She found herself making a mental note, when she got home, to modify Stella’s legend and social media history to include an avid bird-watcher ex called Jordan who had since spent his inheritance travelling to Thailand to join some environmental protest. It turned out that they were queuing to buy breakfast sandwiches from a counter behind which it looked like someone had squeezed a whole kitchen into a broom closet. They could probably have got something very similar to take away from Rafferty’s, but somehow it felt different to be supporting a local trader when visiting a new part of town. “Not what I expected my first taste of Chinatown would be,” Isadora mused as they walked away. “Good value, though,” Zannah gestured with her own wrap after taking a bite. “And good quality too. Besides, this is what the locals seem to have for breakfast around here. Those who aren’t eating at home, anyway.” “I guess everything seems a little exotic when you’re visiting somewhere new. And you know what? Even if it’s a bagel like I’d get at home, it tastes different. Different methods, different seasoning, but I don’t think I ever had a deli bagel just like this one. So it’s still something new.” “Maybe it’s a mix of familiar elements and exotic influences,” Zannah said with a little shrug. “Or maybe it just tastes different because the market stalls around you look so oriental. I mean, it could be influencing how we perceive it, and how would we know?” “There’s probably a name for that in psychology. Like how food preferences change when you’re in another country, I think I read about that a while back. Same thing, just on a smaller scale.” “Chinatown Syndrome?” Zannah suggested, with a little chuckle. “Anyway, let’s eat and move. I’m sure there’s plenty more birds on signs to find.” And Isadora could join in with the laughter then. Suddenly what had seemed like a challenging task was going to be so much easier, and she’d just said what came to mind. Maybe when it came down to it, she had the instincts of an investigator after all.

We have had an annual campout since 2003 its been posted in clubs links and announcements for many years this year its in Southern Alberta due to low participation last year all of us got together and paid to secure the site and now we have opened it a little to Furries and Spankaholics too but mostly Ab Dls   If your interested Email me at babyalan007@gmail.com