Page 157 of Pocket Wife

“Mr. Ashby,” Salo says.

“Formal appreciation.”

Lucy laughs then.

Small.

Broken at the edges.

Real.

The hall breaks with her.

Not into celebration yet. That will come later, when people trust the ships are gone and the pumps still work. For now, they move toward one another. Parents check children. Elders accept cups of water they had not wanted to admit they needed. Neighbors who almost took Helix shelter stand with those who talked them through the contract.

No one shames them.

Lucy made that rule.

The valley obeys.

I keep her hand in mine.

Kaun’s private seal opens on my slate.

I read it once.

Then again.

Lucy sees my expression. “What?”

“Director Kaun requests my continued service on the criminal preservation inquiry.”

Lucy’s fingers tighten.

“She also says,” I continue, “that my prior standing within the Authority may be restored after review.”

Lucy studies me. “And what do you want?”

The question is not small.

It contains my ruined homeworld. My centuries of duty. The Authority that shaped me, failed me, used me, and still might need me. It contains Lucy’s field, the cistern, the registry, the valley that taught law how to listen.

I look around the hall.

At Celia scolding a teenager for carrying water wrong.

At Samuel arguing with Eleanor and losing again.

At Jessa writing tribunal order dates beneath ration numbers because order comforts her.

At Nara pressing her son’s hand to a cup as if water has become miracle.

At Lucy, who has stood before ships, law, hunger, fear, and history, and has never once mistaken survival for surrender.

“I want,” I say carefully, “to finish the inquiry.”

Lucy nods.