A few murmurs of agreement ripple through the crowd.
"Like, I had no idea Mrs. Albion makes dumplings that could probably end world hunger. Or that the college kids upstairs are apparently conducting groundbreaking research in cheese fusion." This gets a laugh. "Or that Mr. Rodriguez throws a quinceañera-level celebration every time the Cubs win."
"Hey, they deserve it," Mr. Rodriguez calls out, which gets an even bigger laugh.
"But here's the thing." I take a breath, feeling the petition crinkle in my pocket. "One of our neighbors is facing a really tough situation. Ursak—" I gesture toward him, and he freezes like a deer in headlights. "Ursak has been part of this community for three years. He's helped half of you carry groceries, fixed Mrs. Patterson's leaky faucet, and somehow never complained when my salsa music practice got out of hand."
"Your salsa music is lovely, dear," Mrs. Patterson calls out supportively.
"Liar, but thank you." I grin, then take another breath. "Ursak's facing an immigration hearing tomorrow. And while I know it's not really our business, I thought... maybe it could be. Maybe being neighbors means something more than just tolerating each other's cooking smells."
The room goes quiet. I can hear the coffee ceremony burbling in the corner and Sir Pouncealot meowing somewhere in the hallway.
"So I wrote up a petition. Character witness statements. Something that shows the immigration court that Ursak isn't just a case number. He's someone who belongs here. Someone who makes this place better." I pull out the petition, hands slightly shaking. "But only if people want to sign. No pressure. I just thought?—"
"Where do I sign?"
The voice comes from an unexpected source: Ms. Cavanaugh, who's standing up with a pen already in hand.
"I… really?"
"Mr. Irontongue helped me install my new air conditioning unit last month. Wouldn't take a penny for it. Said it was 'neighborly duty.'" She walks over with surprising determination. "Plus, anyone who knows the difference between County Cork grass tea and regular lawn clippings deserves to stay."
A ripple of laughter and agreement moves through the room. Mrs. Albion stands up next, then Mr. Rodriguez, then the college kids. Soon there's an actual line forming.
I catch Ursak's eye across the room. His expression is unreadable, but there's something soft around his eyes that wasn't there before.
"Maya." He appears at my elbow as neighbors continue signing. "You didn't have to?—"
"Yes, I did. We're neighbors. This is what neighbors do."
Before he can respond, chaos erupts from the food table.
Sir Pouncealot, the cat who lives with Mrs. Patterson but treats the entire building as his personal kingdom—, has somehow launched himself directly into my chili pot. Blackbeans and cat go flying in all directions as he scrambles for purchase on the slippery rim.
"Sir Pouncealot, no!" Mrs. Patterson shrieks, rushing toward the disaster.
The cat achieves escape velocity and lands squarely in Mrs. Albion's kimchi, which sends him ricocheting toward the boar ribs with a yowl of indignation. Ursak lunges forward to protect his sixteen-hour masterpiece, but Sir Pouncealot uses his massive shoulder as a launching pad toward the punch bowl.
"Not the grass tea!" Ms. Cavanaugh cries.
But it's too late. Cat meets punch in a spectacular collision that sends neon green liquid splashing across three tables and at least six people. Sir Pouncealot, now thoroughly soaked and smelling like fermented lawn clippings, sits in the center of the carnage and begins calmly grooming his paw as if this was all according to plan.
The room falls silent for exactly three seconds.
Then someone, I think it's Mr. Rodriguez, starts laughing. Real, deep belly laughter that's immediately contagious. Mrs. Albion points at the green-tinted cat and dissolves into giggles. Even Ms. Cavanaugh, covered in her grandmother's punch recipe, begins chuckling.
"Well," Ursak says solemnly, surveying the disaster. "This is why we serve buffet-style."
That does it. The entire room erupts. People are laughing so hard they're crying, which makes them laugh harder. Sir Pouncealot, apparently satisfied with his work, hops down from the table and struts toward the door like a furry green emperor.
"I guess this is what community looks like," I manage between gasps of laughter.
"Food fights and drunk cats?" Ursak grins.
"Exactly."
As we start the cleanup process, which involves a lot of paper towels and ongoing giggles every time someone discovers a new splash of green punch, I notice the petition making its way around the room. People are still signing between wiping down chairs and salvaging uncontaminated food.
