She stood there in her flour-dusted apron, holding two thermoses and a tray of paper cups.
“Heard what happened,” she said simply. “Figured you haven’t had coffee.”
Before I could answer, she stepped past me like she owned the place and set the tray on the front desk, moving around shattered glass without hesitation.
“I’ll help clean,” she added, like it was obvious.
“Margie, you don’t have to...”
But she was already rolling up her sleeves.
Ten minutes later, it was Liam from the shelter.
Then Andre from the rec center.
Then Mrs. Chan, with her three teenage grandkids, each of them holding brooms and grocery bags full of cleaning supplies.
And they kept coming.
One by one.
People who’d walked these halls. Who’d sent someone here for help. Who’d survived something and come out the other side with a little more light than they started with.
And now?
They were here to stand for the woman who never stopped fighting for them.
Remi.
Jack stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching as people picked up broken things and set them upright again.
“We can use this,” he said quietly.
I glanced at him. “Use what?”
He gestured to the crowd, the hum of quiet determination filling the clinic.
“Let them rally,” he said. “Let them make noise. Spread truth louder than the lies.”
“Remi wouldn’t want a circus,” I said, my voice hollow.
Jack shook his head. “No. She’d want a revolution.”
I looked back at the doorway.
At the people still pouring in.
We were tired.
We were broken.
But we weren’t backing down.
Not this time.
Not again.
We were going to hold the fucking line.
