Three weeks after the signing, Moonridge finds its rhythm.
Not a perfect rhythm. Nothing about this is perfect. But a real one. The kind that has texture to it. Rough edges and worn smooth parts and the particular sound of a place that knows what it's doing even when it's hard.
Mixed patrols run six days a week now. The seventh day is voluntary and half of them show up anyway because somewhere in the past month the routine became something people relied on. Colt files the most detailed patrol reports I've ever read. Three pages minimum. Annotated. With hand drawn maps of anything unusual he spots on the tree line.
Kell reads them cover to cover and asks questions that make Colt talk for twenty minutes and come back the next day with even more detail.
I watch this happen over breakfast
