Chapter 15 – Human Eyes
1157 Words
The temporary office Mara has been given smells like old coffee and industrial cleaner. The kind of place administrators go to die quietly, one budget meeting at a time.
“Sit,” she orders, jabbing a finger at the cracked vinyl chair opposite her borrowed desk. “You’re still supposed to be ‘taking it easy’.”
“I walked from the elevator,” I say. “Not exactly a triathlon.”
My chest still twinges when I breathe too deep, but the worst of the burn has faded to a sore ache. Maera’s herbs did more than the hospital’s inhaler; I’m not telling anyone that on an official form.
Mara narrows her eyes. “You’re pale. And cranky.”
“I’m always cranky.”
“Exactly.” She pushes a paper cup of truly horrifying coffee toward me. “Drink. Pretend it helps.”
I take a sip. It tastes like burned mud and regret. Comforting, in a way.
Outside the narrow window, the shell of Keane House is a blackened skeleton against a washed‑out sky. Yellow tape flaps in the wind. A lone firefighter in a hard hat picks through debris, looking for hotspots and anything worth salvaging.
Our kids are scattered across borrowed classrooms and church basements for now. Safe, but shaken. Staff too. Everyone waiting for someone in a suit to declare what happens next.
A knock rattles the door.
“Come in,” Mara calls.
Theo pokes his head in, curls escaping a half‑hearted tie, messenger bag slung across his chest. His gaze flicks between us, cataloguing injuries.
“Good, you’re both vertical,” he says. “That’ll play well for the cameras.”
“The what now?” Mara asks.
He grimaces. “Sorry. Bad segue. The city’s sending someone over in an hour. ‘Preliminary assessment of structural damage and program viability.’ Translation: they’re deciding whether we’re worth rebuilding or easier to quietly let die.”
Mara exhales sharply. “Of course they are.”
My stomach twists. “Do we know who they’re sending? Building inspector? Social services?”
“Both,” Theo says. “And someone from the Department’s ‘community outreach’ arm.”
The word Department lands like ice in the room.
“Perfect,” Mara mutters. “Nothing says ‘we care about your children’ like the people who want to catalog them as potential threats.”
Theo drops into the other chair, setting his bag on his knees. “We can prep, though,” he says. “Frame the conversation. Talk about how many families rely on Keane. How good our track record is. All the stuff that makes shiny graphs.”
I stare past him, at the jagged bite out of the shelter’s roofline.
“They didn’t start that fire because our graphs weren’t shiny enough,” I say quietly.
Theo’s gaze sharpens. “You really think it was targeted?”
“Yes,” I say. “And the Department will pretend they don’t.”
He chews the inside of his cheek. “Okay. So. They come in with clipboards and fake concern. What’s our move?”
Mara looks at me.
You used to be on their lists, her eyes say. You know their language.
“This isn’t about codes and permits,” I say slowly. “Those are props. They want to see if we’re scared enough to fold. If we’ll agree to ‘temporary relocations’ for the kids. To more oversight. To screenings.”
“For shifter markers,” Theo says grimly. “Or anything that looks like it.”
“Exactly.”
Mara sets her coffee down with a sharp clack. “We are not letting them ship our kids off to some ‘enrichment program’ that sounds suspiciously like a holding pen.”
“Good,” I say. “Then we make that the hill we plant our flag on.”
Theo pulls a notebook from his bag. “Walk me through it. Worst‑case questions, best‑case answers.”
We spend the next forty minutes building a script: how many children we serve, how many success stories; the families that would be left without support if we close; the community backlash that might follow. All the human arguments a human official might have to at least acknowledge.
We do not mention wolves. Or bords. Or the fact that several of our “success stories” are kids who didn’t end up in cuffs the night their eyes flashed gold because someone taught them how to breathe through the change.
“Okay,” Theo says finally, tapping his pen against his teeth. “That’s the official spin. What about the off‑the‑record?”
“Off‑the‑record,” I say, “if they push to move ‘high‑risk’ kids into any kind of facility that isn’t here, we stall. We tell them families won’t agree. That I won’t sign off as their caseworker. We make it clear they’ll have to drag them out in full view of the neighborhood.”
“Make it expensive,” Mara says, eyes glinting. “Politically, I mean.”
“Exactly.” I rub my temples. “If they want to escalate, they’ll have to do it loud. No quiet van rides in the middle of the night.”
Theo’s expression goes from thoughtful to wary. “You’re sure you want to be the one standing in that doorway?”
“No,” I say. “But I’m already on their radar. Might as well make it count.”
The clock on the wall ticks. Every second feels like one more grain of sand in an hourglass someone else flipped.
Theo glances at the window. “Car,” he says. “City plates. And… great. Department decal.”
My pulse spikes.
“Remember,” I say, standing too fast. The room tilts, then steadies. “We are calm. Cooperative. Deeply concerned. And absolutely immovable on one point: the kids stay with us. No transfers. No ‘evaluations’ off‑site.”
Mara squares her shoulders. “I can do concerned. I’ve been practicing yelling at hold music for years.”
Theo squeezes my arm. “And you?”
“I can do immovable,” I say.
Because I’ve already watched them take everything else. They don’t get these kids too.
The knock, when it comes, is polite. Three firm taps.
Mara opens the door.
Two people stand there. A building inspector I don’t recognize, hardhat under his arm.
And behind him, in a tailored coat and a badge clipped just a little too prominently to his lapel, is a man whose photo I’ve seen on more than one internal memo.
Department of Supernatural Risk Management. Outreach Division.
He smiles, all practiced warmth and professional sorrow.
“Ms. Keane? Ms. Ashridge?” he says. “I’m Daniel Hart. I’m here to help.”
- Writer
