Page 25 of Pocket Wife

The room chills anyway.

Rethan continues before I can step in. “I am here to determine what the records prove. If you want protection through this process, bring records that can be tested.”

The woman stares at him. “You always talk like that?”

“Yes,” I say before Rethan can answer. “But annoyingly, he is useful.”

A few people laugh. Not much. Enough.

I climb onto the low platform where harvest musicians usually play and look across the crowd. Neighbors. Strangers. People pretending to be practical because panic would cost too much.

“We need structure,” I say. “Not rumors running faster than facts. If Helix is touching other settlements, then this is larger than they admitted. That helps us only if we prove it cleanly.”

“What now?” Jessa asks from near the school records.

I point to the side tables. “One table for land documents. One for family records. One for witness statements. One for Helix contact: visits, drones, survey flags, threats, offers. If someone from Helix speaks to you, write down the time, place, name, exact words if you can. Do not go alone. Do not hand over originals. Copies only.”

A younger farmer lifts his hand. “What if they offer money?”

The question cuts through the room.

No one mocks him. That unsettles me more than anger would have.

I grip the platform rail. “Then you bring the offer here before you sign. No shame. No judgment. If your family is scared, say so. We cannot fight together if we start punishing people for being afraid.”

My father stands near the back, face grave with approval. My mother studies the burial maps in her lap.

The room begins to move.

Not smoothly. Nothing about anxious people becomes smooth. But lines form. Names are taken. Copies start. A girl from North Well carries drone images to Rethan. Two old men argue over a boundary creek, then discover they’re describing the same bend from opposite sides. Someone brews tea. Someone else finds more chairs.

The resistance, I realize, does not begin with shouting.

It begins with tables.

Near midday, I step outside because the hall has grown too warm and my head throbs behind my eyes. Rethan follows a minute later carrying two cups of water.

He offers one.

I accept it. “You do know ‘not by promise alone’ is still a terrible comfort.”

“I was not attempting comfort.”

“Clearly.”

“I was attempting accuracy.”

“Also terrible at comfort.”

His mouth stays serious, but the faint light beneath his skin shifts at his throat. “Should I have lied?”

“No.” I lean against the porch rail and watch the valley road, where more dust rises in the distance. More wagons. More worry. “But sometimes people need to know you want the truth to help them.”

“I do.”

The answer is simple enough to catch me off guard.

My eyes lift to his. “Why?”