Ms. Cavanaugh appears at my elbow with a handful of soaked napkins. "You know, dear, in all my years managing this building, tonight's the first time it's actually felt like home."
"Even with the cat-induced food explosion?"
"Especially with the cat-induced food explosion." She grins, an actual, warm grin that transforms her entire face. "Some of the best communities are built on shared disasters."
Across the room, Ursak is helping Mrs. Albion transfer uncontaminated dumplings to a clean plate, patiently listening as she explains her grandmother's folding technique. The late evening light streams through the community room windows, highlighting the mess and laughter and the petition still making its rounds.
Hope flutters like something with wings.
Tomorrow is Friday. Tomorrow is the hearing.
But tonight, we're neighbors. We're a community. Ursak isn't facing this alone.
The petition comes back to me with thirty-seven signatures, including one in Ms. Cavanaugh's precise handwriting that reads: "A credit to our building and an asset to any community lucky enough to have him."
I catch Ursak's eye across the crowded, chaotic room. He's got a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth, and when our gazes meet, that smile blooms into something bright and certain.
Twelve days, I think. But twelve days with thirty-seven neighbors on our side feels like pretty good odds.
CHAPTER 14
URSAK
The petition lies open on my desk like a treaty of impossible hope. Thirty-seven signatures. Thirty-seven humans who believe I deserve to stay.
My hands shake as I pour tea into the hammer-shaped mug Maya found at a thrift store last week. "For your morning war cry," she'd said, grinning. The ceramic handle fits my grip perfectly, crafted for someone who builds bridges with words instead of destroying them with weapons.
Deep breath. Focus.
I arrange six notebooks across the table, Hungarian, Spanish, German, French, Italian, and my still-clumsy English. Each will carry the same message, but finding the right words in each language requires surgical precision. One mistranslation could turn gratitude into offense.
"Fellow neighbors," I begin in Hungarian, my voice echoing off the apartment walls. "Kedves szomszédaim."
The words feel wrong. Too formal. Too distant.
I scratch through the line and try again. "Barátaim.My friends."
Better. But not right for every language. In German,freundecarries different weight thanamigosin Spanish. Context matters. Cultural distance matters.
Maya's name appears in my first attempt without conscious thought: "Maya taught me that community isn't built through perfect grammar..."
I pause. Her name shouldn't dominate every line, but somehow it keeps appearing. In Hungarian: "Maya megmutatta nekem..." In Spanish: "Maya me enseñó que..." In German: "Maya hat mir gezeigt..."
Each version weaves her presence through my gratitude like golden thread.
The tea grows cold as I work. Steam no longer rises from the hammer-shaped mug, but warmth spreads through my chest each time I write her name. She orchestrated tonight's gathering. She convinced thirty-seven strangers to care about one displaced orc.
"In my homeland," I continue in French, "dans ma patrie, we say 'stone warms slow, but holds heat longest.' Tonight you have warmed this stone."
My voice cracks on the last word. I clear my throat and try the line in Italian, then German, then Spanish. Each language offers different textures for the same emotion, but none capture the magnitude of what I felt watching neighbors line up to sign that petition.
Sir Pouncealot materializes at my feet like an orange shadow. His fur still carries faint traces of grass tea from earlier's catastrophe, giving him an oddly dignified scent. He settles onto my boots with a rumbling purr that vibrates through the floorboards.
"You missed quite an evening," I tell him, scratching behind his ears. "Your dramatic entrance helped more than my sixteen-hour ribs."
He chirps once, apparently accepting credit for community building through chaos.
I return to my notebooks, searching for words that honor what happened tonight without sounding like I'm begging. Orcs don't beg. We state facts, offer fair trade, accept consequences.
