The room falls silent. Twenty-something neighbors frozen mid-chant, signs drooping, the awkward energy of a surprise party that's surprised the wrong person.
"I..." Ursak's gaze sweeps the room, taking in the signs, the phones recording, Dex's laptop still glowing with immigration law research. "I heard shouting. Thought someone was in distress."
Of course you did.Because he's the kind of person who hears raised voices and assumes someone needs help, not that the raised voices might behelping him.
"Surprise community support demonstration," I say weakly, suddenly aware of how this must look. A room full of humans chanting about his personal business, making his private immigration struggle into a public spectacle without asking permission.
His expression shifts through confusion, recognition, and something I can't quite read. Embarrassment? Gratitude? Fear that this attention might make things worse?
I drop my sign and step forward, hands already moving before my brain fully engages. Months of watching Ursak practice orcish sign language have taught me a few basicgestures. I attempt what I think is the sign for "sorry"—fingers curved, palm toward heart, then extending outward.
Ursak blinks. Then his eyebrows rise, and despite everything, his mouth twitches.
Mrs. Albion whispers loudly, "What did she just say?"
"I believe," Ursak says carefully, "she just offered to trade livestock with my clan."
Heat floods my face. "That's not… I was trying to say sorry?—"
"The gesture for apology is more..." He demonstrates, hands moving with practiced grace. Similar to what I attempted, but with a subtle rotation that apparently makes the difference between "I'm sorry" and "I have goats for sale."
A few neighbors chuckle. The tension breaks slightly, but the fundamental awkwardness remains. We're still a room full of people who organized around his problems without consulting him, no matter how good our intentions.
"This is really kind," Ursak continues, his voice carrying that careful politeness he uses when navigating complex social situations. "But perhaps we should discuss?—"
"You're right," I interrupt, reading the discomfort in his posture. "This was... we should have asked first. Before organizing anything."
Our eyes meet across the cluttered laundry room. His expression is complicated with gratitude mixed with something like panic, appreciation tempered by the bone-deep wariness of someone whose entire future depends on not making waves.
He manages a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Thank you. All of you. But perhaps we could continue this conversation somewhere more private?"
The neighbors begin to disperse, murmuring among themselves, collecting their signs and laundry with the slightly deflated energy of activists whose target audience has askedthem to quiet down. Dex packs up her laptop, shooting me a look that clearly sayswe'll debrief later.
Within minutes, the laundry room empties until it's just Ursak and me, standing among abandoned protest signs and the lingering scent of fabric softener.
"I fucked that up," I say before he can speak.
"You were trying to help."
"Without asking what kind of help you actually wanted." I lean against the washing machine, suddenly exhausted. "God, I'm such an idiot. Making your private business into a public demonstration like you're some charity case instead of just a person dealing with a shitty situation."
Ursak is quiet for a long moment, studying the scattered signs on the floor. "The livestock offer was quite generous, though. My clan values goats highly."
Despite everything, I laugh. "Shut up."
"Two healthy goats could feed a family through winter?—"
"I said shut up." But I'm smiling now, and so is he, and for a moment the weight of immigration deadlines and bureaucratic nightmares lifts just enough to let us breathe.
The moment stretches, fragile as spun glass. I want to ask about the letter, about his deadline, about why he's been avoiding my calls. Want to tell him that seeing him scared has terrified me in ways I don't fully understand yet.
Instead, I bend to collect the fallen signs, needing something to do with my hands. "Dex found some legal precedents. Cases where community support documentation helped. If you want to hear about them."
"Maya." My name sounds different in his voice. Heavier. "This attention, it could make things worse. Immigration officials don't always appreciate community organizing around individual cases."
The words hit like cold water. "I didn't think?—"
"I know. And I'm grateful. More than I can express in any language." He picks up a sign reading "URSAK BELONGS HERE," fingers tracing the uneven lettering. "But I need to be careful. Strategic. One wrong move and..."
