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Aaron looked alarmed. “What kind of work?”

Mrs. Fletcher’s gaze moved toward the back window. “The lower fence needs repainting.”

“How much fence?”

“A lot,” she said.

Mr. Fletcher almost smiled.

I continued. “After that, both groups attend dinner.”

Everyone looked at me.

Aaron spoke first. “With each other?”

“That is generally how shared meals work.”

“At the hall?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Fletcher’s eyebrows rose. “You’re inviting our family onto pack land?”

“I am.”

Mr. Fletcher studied me carefully. “That is generous.”

I raised a hand. “It is overdue.”

He glanced toward the teenagers, then back to me. “What changed?”

I thought of Sloane. The ridiculous deception. The way one stranger had entered our family and made us examine the boundaries we treated as permanent. She had brought disruption, yes. She had also brought possibility.

“Someone recently opened my eyes to how much a community can gain when it stops treating new people as threats by default,” I said. “She reminded me that sharing food and stories does more than formal agreements ever will.”

Mrs. Fletcher’s features softened.

Mr. Fletcher extended his hand. “We’ll come to dinner.”

I took it. “Good.”

Mrs. Fletcher looked toward Aaron and the twins. “You boys like green beans?”

Aaron hesitated. “Sometimes.”

“You’ll learn to like them.”

The taller Kipner twin whispered, “That sounded like a threat.”

“It was,” Marissa said.

The tension broke enough for a few reluctant smiles.

By the time we left, both families had exchanged numbers, the council interview had been scheduled, and the younger children had agreed to begin painting the fence on Saturday morning.

Aaron climbed into the truck and closed the door.

Nobody spoke until we reached the main road.