“What do we do now?” she asks, giving Zayn his coffee.
“The judge sees our emergency request tomorrow,” Zayn says, “but we need to file the history papers today as backup. And we need all those petition signatures.” He turns to me. “How many did we get?”
“Three hundred and twelve,” I say, pulling out the thick stack of papers from my bag. “The mayor signed too, and the history board.”
“Good.” Zayn drinks his coffee. “The printer should be done with the final?—”
A terrible grinding noise interrupts him. We all turn toward the printer emitting sounds like it’s being murdered.
“No, no, no,” I say, hurrying over. A wrinkled paper sticks out, half-printed and ruined. “Not now!”
“Let me check.” Zayn appears directly behind me, close enough that I feel his body heat. When he reaches around me to access the printer, his chest presses against my back. I forget how to breathe.
“The printer’s stuck,” he says right by my ear, his breath warm against my skin. I move away to give him space, feeling my cheeks get hot.
“Can you fix it?” Dr. Martinez asks, walking over.
“Damn it, we don’t have time for this,” I say, panic taking over my voice. “We need those documents filed in twenty minutes or the clerk’s office closes.”
Zayn pulls out the wrinkled paper and reaches into the machine. “Almost got it,” he says. Something inside snaps loudly.
I jump. “Did you break it?”
“Fixed it,” he says, shutting the cover. The printer starts working again, resuming its steady rhythm like a heartbeat returning to normal.
My shoulders drop with relief. “Thank goodness.”
We stand around the printer, watching the pages come out one by one like prayer cards. Zayn starts putting them in order, his fingers moving fast. I grab the stapler and follow him, attaching each set.
“Last page,” Zayn says as the printer stops. “Sophie, did you get the?—”
“The maps? Right here.” I push the papers to him before he finishes asking.
Our eyes meet, and something warm passes between us, electric and dangerous. “You always know what I need.”
The words hang in the air, and I know he means more than just paperwork. I look away, blood rushing hot.
Dr. Martinez clears her throat. “I’ll call the clerk to tell them we’re coming.”
The next fifteen minutes go by in a rush. Zayn writing quick notes while I put everything into a binder, Dr. Martinez checking details on the phone. My stomach ties itself into increasingly complex knots with each passing minute. This has to work. We cannot lose the clinic.
Zayn’s desk phone rings, making us all jump. He puts it on speaker.
“Mr. Blackwell?” a bored voice says. “This is Janet from the county clerk’s office. I got your emergency filing for the historic landmark designation.”
We all freeze, barely breathing. The room goes so quiet you can hear a pin drop.
“And?” Zayn asks when Janet doesn’t go on.
“It’s been accepted and time-stamped. The demolition permits are on hold until review.”
Relief floods through me so suddenly my knees buckle, and I collapse into the nearest chair. The world tilts sideways for a moment.
“Thank you, Janet,” Zayn says, sounding professional while his face breaks into the biggest smile I’ve seen in years.
The call ends. For a moment, none of us move or talk. Then Dr. Martinez whispers, “Gracias a Dios,” her voice breaking. She quickly wipes her eyes.
“We did it,” I breathe, still processing.
