Tess sits three rows back, phone ready to live-tweet. Aunt Rene insisted on coming despite her hip, and she's planted herself in the front row with her cane across her lap like a weapon.
Stone stands near the back exit. We agreed he'd stay out of sight until called. Too easy for Blair to twist his presence into intimidation.
But I can feel him there. Steady and certain.
The chamber fills. Local press lines the walls, cameras ready. Councilwoman Blair sits at the dais, perfectly coiffed, her smile sharp as broken glass.
"We'll begin with public testimony," she announces. "Each speaker has three minutes. Please keep comments respectful and relevant."
The first speaker is a business owner who hired an orc welder. He talks numbers, productivity, tax revenue. Good testimony, solid, but it doesn't land emotionally.
The second speaker opposes the program. Safety concerns, cultural incompatibility, the tired rhetoric of fear dressed up as practicality.
I watch Blair nod along, face thoughtful and concerned.
My turn comes too fast.
I stand. My knees shake. I walk to the podium and the chamber goes silent.
"My name is Lacy Ellis. I own Ellis Books and Brews, a small bookstore and cafe that received support through the cultural exchange program."
My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
"When Stone Venn first arrived at my shop, he crashed through my awning. Books went everywhere. I was furious."
A few chuckles ripple through the people.
"I saw green skin and size and difference, and I made assumptions. I thought he'd be clumsy, inconsiderate, maybe even dangerous. But Stone stayed. He helped rebuild what he'd broken. He learned my systems, memorized customer names, brought orc spices to expand the cafe menu. He worked harder than anyone I've ever hired."
I pause, find Stone's eyes across the room.
"But this isn't really about hiring practices or economic impact. It's about belonging. About what we lose when we legislate against people who look different, speak different, love different."
Blair shifts in her seat.
"Stone writes poetry. Terrible poetry, honestly." More laughter, warmer now. "He leaves these notes everywhere. Margins of ledgers, backs of receipts, scraps of napkin. And one day I found this poem tucked into a fantasy novel I love. It said:Home is not the hearth you're born to. It's the hand that learns your scars and holds you gently anyway."
My voice cracks. I clear my throat.
"That's what integration means. Not erasing difference. Learning each other's scars. Choosing gentleness when fear would be easier."
I look directly at Blair.
"Stone taught me that belonging isn't about fitting in. It's about being seen completely, strangeness and all, and chosen anyway. That's what this program offers. That's what we risk losing if we legislate from fear instead of hope."
I step back from the podium. The room is quiet. Then Aunt Rene starts clapping, slow and deliberate, and others join.
Blair's smile never wavers.
"Thank you, Ms. Ellis. Very moving." Her tone suggests the opposite. "I do have a question, if you'll indulge me."
My stomach drops.
"Of course."
"You mentioned Mr. Venn's initial damage to your property. The awning incident. Were there other safety concerns during his placement?"
"No. It was an accident."
