The council bled into evening. Voices thinned to scraping chairs and the rustle of papers that pretended to be history. Laurel slipped back into the small garden where the creek talked behind bare shrubs. She needed air that hadn't been argued over.
Bootsteps crunched on gravel.
“Laurel," Anderson said at the gate.
“No," she said without turning. “Not unless you have something I can use."
“I have an apology," he said, coming closer, stopping a measured distance away. “And I know how little it costs."
“Then spend it fast," she said. “I'm short on time and patience."
“I was wrong," he said. “In the ward. At the curb. In the years before that. I made you smaller because it made me feel steady. I let Serena's fear be a compass. I hurt you. I hurt Nancy." He swallowed. “I am sorry."
Laur
