She makes a note on her clipboard, pen scratching against paper with bureaucratic finality. "I'll need the proposal submitted by five PM tomorrow. Typed, formatted, comprehensive. And Ms. Ruiz?"
"Yes?"
"Your neighbor's hearing results won't influence my decision about building policy. Whatever happens this afternoon, the noise complaints still require resolution."
Of course.Because even if Ursak wins his immigration case, he still needs to live somewhere. And if he loses, at least he won'tspend his final weeks in this country facing eviction proceedings on top of deportation paperwork.
"Understood."
She turns to leave, then pauses. "For what it's worth, Ms. Ruiz, last night's potluck was pleasant. Sir Pouncealot seemed to enjoy himself."
"He certainly enjoyed the stew."
"Indeed." Almost a smile. Almost warmth. "Twenty-four hours."
I watch her disappear through the lobby door, clipboard and clipboard authority restored. The stairwell feels different now—less like neutral territory and more like a launching pad. Upstairs, 4B waits in silence. Ursak preparing for his hearing, trusting that community support translates to practical protection.
Twenty-four hours.
I climb the stairs two at a time, already drafting bullet points in my head. Quiet hours that accommodate cultural practice schedules. Noise level guidelines that distinguish between disruptive behavior and linguistic rehearsal. Community mediation processes that prioritize conversation over complaint forms.
But first, I need to check on the man whose future depends on my ability to write policy that protects people instead of just paperwork.
The hallway on the fourth floor stretches longer than usual, my footsteps echoing against walls that have heard fourteen complaints and thirty-seven signatures and one woman's promise to stand by her neighbor. Ursak's door sits closed, no sound bleeding through the wood. Either he's practicing silently, or he's already left for his hearing, or he's sitting in careful quiet, afraid that one more linguistic exercise might tip the balance toward eviction.
I raise my hand to knock, then hesitate. What do I say? "Good luck with your hearing, and by the way, I've just committed to rewriting building policy in twenty-four hours to save your tenancy"? "Break a leg today, but try not to break it too loudly because Ms. Cavanaugh is counting complaints"?
Instead, I slip a note under his door. Quick, simple, honest:
Gone to draft policy changes that protect linguistic practice rights. Back before your hearing ends. Coffee after? - Maya
PS - Sir Pouncealot says good luck.
The note disappears under his door like a prayer under a church altar. Upstairs, my apartment waits with laptop charged and deadline discipline ready to tackle the most important writing project of my freelance career: creating a framework where belonging doesn't require silence, where cultural preservation coexists with community harmony, where thirty-seven signatures translate into practical protection.
Twenty-four hours to save my neighbor's home.
Time to get to work.
CHAPTER 16
URSAK
The makeshift stage wobbles under my boots.
Three milk crates and a sheet of plywood, hastily assembled in the lobby by neighbors who believe in second chances. Mrs. Albion from 2A steadied one corner while Dex held the other, their combined engineering creating something that might hold an orc's weight without collapsing into expensive liability issues.
Might.
The plywood creaks as I shift my stance, six dialect notebooks tucked under one arm like armor against anxiety. Twenty-three residents gathered in the lobby, as more than attended last night's potluck, fewer than signed Maya's petition. The ones who came balance on folding chairs and lean against mailboxes, faces reflecting curiosity mixed with the particular exhaustion of people who just want their building to be quiet.
Maya catches my eye from the front row, laptop balanced on her knees, fingers poised over keys like a court stenographer documenting history. Her smile carries yesterday's coffee warmth and this morning's determination, but underneath, worry lines around her eyes that weren't there when we firstcollided in the hallway with tumbling socks and awkward apologies.
Twenty-four hours.That's what her note said. Twenty-four hours to draft policy changes that protect linguistic practice rights, which translates to twenty-four hours to prove I deserve to stay in this building even if immigration authorities decide I don't deserve to stay in this country.
Ms. Cavanaugh stands near the lobby door, clipboard pressed against her chest like bureaucratic body armor. She checks her watch, a practiced gesture that communicateshurry upwithout violating tenant meeting protocols. Behind her, afternoon light filters through frosted glass, casting shadows that make the whole scene feel like a courtroom where the jury gets to go home for dinner afterward.
I clear my throat, and the sound rumbles through the lobby like distant thunder.
