"You'd like to propose..." She blinks slowly, like I've spoken in Ursak's native tongue. "Ms. Ruiz, you're a tenant, not a building manager. You don't propose alternatives to established policy."
But the petition signatures suggest otherwise. Thirty-seven neighbors who chose solidarity over silence, who prioritized community over convenience. That carries weight, even in Ms. Cavanaugh's rigid framework.
"Then let me clarify." I pull out my phone, thumb to the petition photo I snapped last night. "These signatures represent fifty-three percent of building occupancy. A majority of your tenants support accommodating 4B's cultural practice schedule."
Her clipboard drops an inch. "You've calculated occupancy percentages?"
"I've calculated democracy." The phrase sounds braver than I feel, but sometimes bravery is just stubbornness wearing a confident outfit. "These neighbors want a solution that works for everyone, not just complainers."
"The complainers are also my tenants."
"Fourteen complaints from how many people?"
She hesitates.Got her.Fourteen complaints doesn't necessarily mean fourteen different neighbors. Could be the same four people calling repeatedly, escalating their frustration until it sounds like building-wide revolt.
"That's confidential information."
"So is whether you want to fight fifty-three percent of your tenants or work with them." I step closer, lowering my voice. "Ms. Cavanaugh, Ursak isn't just practicing for fun. He's preparing for an immigration hearing. Today. This afternoon. His rehearsals aren't recreational. They're survival."
For a moment, something flickers across her expression. Not sympathy exactly, but recognition. Like she's remembering what it feels like to need something desperately, to practice precision until your voice aches because the alternative is losing everything.
"That's... unfortunate," she says finally. "But it doesn't change lease obligations."
"Then let's change the lease obligations."
"Excuse me?"
"You want a joint proposal from tenants? Fine. Give me twenty-four hours to draft new building guidelines that accommodate both cultural practice and quiet hour needs. Get input from the petition signers, the complainers, everyone who actually lives here."
She stares at me like I've suggested rewriting gravity. "Ms. Ruiz, building policies aren't collaborative creative writing projects."
"No, they're community agreements. And this community just proved it can come together around shared values." I gesture toward the stairs, toward the apartments above us where thirty-seven neighbors chose signature over silence. "Let us prove we can problem-solve together too."
"Twenty-four hours to draft building-wide policy changes." Her tone suggests I've requested twenty-four hours to terraform Mars. "Ms. Ruiz, that's absurd."
"More absurd than evicting a linguistics professor for practicing linguistics?"
Another flicker. Smaller this time, but present. Ms. Cavanaugh's grip on the clipboard shifts, and I see the papers beneath, not just complaint forms, but lease renewal notices, occupancy reports, maintenance requests. The endless administrative weight of managing a building full of people who all need different things.
"If I agree to this,if, the proposal must be comprehensive. Quiet hours, practice schedules, noise level specifications, enforcement procedures. Not just good intentions and community spirit."
"Understood."
"And if the proposal fails to address legitimate tenant concerns, or if 4B generates another complaint during this grace period..."
"Then you proceed with eviction."
"Immediately."
The word hangs between us like a blade. Immediately. No appeals, no second chances, no more community potlucks to build sympathy. Ursak would have to pack his six dialect notebooks and his romance novel collection and his carefully calibrated morning routine, find somewhere else to belong.
But he'd also have his hearing results by then. Either he'd win the right to stay in the country, making building tenancy moot, or he'd lose everything anyway. Twenty-four hours to draft policy changes, balanced against the immigration decision that makes all of this either celebration or farewell.
"Deal."
Ms. Cavanaugh's eyebrows rise. "Just like that?"
"Just like that."
