The first speaker is a Sereen baker. “My ovens are sixty-year heirlooms. The scent threshold clause means I have to enclose them. You can’t enclose Sereen fire clay. They crack.”
Applause.
Next, a Vakutan grandmother. Her voice trembles, but she doesn’t falter. “They say our market is too noisy. Our food too strong. Our children too… strange. But when humans came to Vakutar, we fed them. We never said their faces frightened us.”
More applause.
More pain.
Every word hits like a hammer.
I see Kenron in all of them—the way his brow creased when he cooked, the pride in his ingredients, the way he made everythingmatter. I see the child who brought me a napkin. The way the air shimmered when the spice steam hit the fan.
And I see what I took from them.
What I signed away.
What Ilet happen.
Someone asks me a question. I don’t catch it. I don’t even realize they know who I am until the murmuring starts. I lower my head, mutter something about listening, and push out the side door before they can surround me.
The air outside is wet with fog.
I bend at the waist, hands on my knees, breathing like I just ran miles.
Shame tastes like bile.
At home, I try to eat. My stomach rejects it.
I try to sleep. My mind won’t shut up.
Kenron’s voice, the way it sounded the last time I saw him—flat, quiet, disappointed—plays on a loop.
"You thought silence would save us."
I can’t tell what’s worse—the silence from him now, or the silence I gave when it mattered.
Both hollow me out.
By morning, I haven’t slept. Haven’t eaten.
I brush my teeth to get rid of the taste of metal in my mouth. It doesn’t work.
My inbox is full. More invites. Praise from party members. A commendation from the governor.
I reply to none of them.
Instead, I write one message.
Just one.
Subject:Re: Districting Policy
To:Senator Dennis Montana
Uncle,
You used me.
