“To show people why Stoneheart matters.”
“Exactly.” I glance around at the other eleven kids, all in various states of nervous energy. “Remember, this isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing these people why this community is worth protecting.”
They nod, a few of them holding hands for support.
Through the gap in the curtain, I see Dad take his seat in the front row. Josie’s next to him. Bones is a few rows back, scanning the crowd with that focused intensity he gets when he’s assessing threats. Tank and Hawk are positioned near the exits. Casual. Watchful.
The room is a mix—elderly residents who’ve been here for decades, young families with kids, business owners, MC members in their cuts, and plenty of people I don’t recognize. The east side neighborhood showing up in force.
Mayor Roberts takes his seat at the front table, looking uncomfortable. He’s in his seventies, heavyset, with the kind of face that’s probably spent more time smiling at ribbon-cuttings than making hard decisions. Next to him are the five town council members—a mix of local business owners and longtime residents.
“All right, everyone.” Mayor Roberts taps the microphone, which squeals with feedback. Several people wince. “Let’s get started. Thank you all for coming tonight. I know this is—well, it’s an unusually large turnout for a town meeting.”
A few people laugh.
“We’re here to discuss the development proposals for the east side neighborhood,” the mayor continues. “But first, Iunderstand we have a special presentation from some of our younger residents.”
That’s my cue.
I hobble out from behind the curtain, my surgical boot making an awkward thump with each step. The crowd quiets as I make my way to the microphone.
“Hi everyone. I’m Emma Armstrong.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “I teach dance at the community center, and when I heard about tonight’s meeting, I thought—who better to remind us what this community means than the kids who are growing up here?”
I gesture to the makeshift curtain and the twelve kids file out, taking their positions across the small stage area. They look so young, so nervous, so determined.
“They’ve put together a short performance,” I continue. “It’s not fancy. We’ve only had a couple of weeks to practice. But I hope it shows you what I’ve been reminded of while teaching them—that Stoneheart isn’t just a place. It’s home.”
I make my way back off the stage as carefully as I can, Bones already there to help me down the steps. I settle into the seat next to him, crutches propped against my chair.
The music starts—a simple piano piece I found that felt right. Hopeful but grounded. The kids move through the routine we practiced, their small bodies hitting marks with surprising precision.
It’s not Broadway. Several of them are off-count. One girl almost collides with the boy next to her. But there’s something about watching them that makes my chest tight.
They’re not performing because they have to. They’re performing because they want to. Because someone told them their voices matter, and they believed it.
The routine builds to the final sequence—all twelve kids moving in unison, their arms reaching up and out like they’re trying to hold something precious. Then they freeze, the music fades, and the room is silent for a heartbeat.
Then someone starts clapping.
Then someone else.
Then the whole room is on its feet, applauding these kids who just poured their little hearts into every single move.
I’m crying. Can’t help it. These kids, this moment, this town coming together—it’s everything I didn’t know I was looking for. Purpose that has nothing to do with being perfect. Belonging that has nothing to do with performance.
The kids take their bow, beaming, and file offstage. Several parents rush over to hug them. I see one mother openly weeping as she holds her daughter.
Mayor Roberts clears his throat. “That was—thank you. Thank you to Emma and the kids for that lovely presentation.” He adjusts his notes. “Now, we’ll open it up for public comment. Anyone who wishes to speak, please come to the microphone.”
Erica Olsen is the first to stand. She looks nervous but determined as she makes her way to the front.
“I’m Erica Olsen. I’ve lived on Maple Street for forty-two years. My husband and I raised our three children in that house. He passed five years ago, but I stayed because it’s home. My roses are in that yard. My memories are in that house.” Her voicewavers slightly. “Three months ago, a company called Carolina Properties started offering to buy my house. I said no. They came back. And back. And back. The last time, I asked them to stop, and they said they wouldn’t—not until I sold. They made it clear they were never going away, and I got the sense it meant they’d start making things difficult for me. That’s when I went to the MC for help.”
She glances back at Dad, who nods encouragingly.
“I don’t want to sell my house,” Erica continues. “I don’t want luxury condos in my neighborhood. I want to stay in the home where I raised my family, where I know my neighbors, where I belong.”
She sits down to applause.
