I told the seventeen fathers what a petition would require.
We sat in the dining room, the same room where I'd once done homework while my mother chopped carrots in the kitchen. I laid out the old deed, a copy of the Northstar offer, and a blank list of possible witnesses.
"No one has to sign anything," I said. "If you do, your name becomes part of the public record. The petition would describe how the building has been used and why the shelter still matters. The city could ask about your living arrangements, income, and history."
"Like a job application," Cal said.
"More like asking strangers to decide whether your life counts as evidence."
He gave a short laugh. "That's a nice way to put it."
"I wish I had a better way."
Eddie leaned toward the papers. "What happens if we don't pe
