Page 88 of Pocket Wife

Darin Om’s voice carries over the relay. “Lark Hollow flood year. Solaris sent water carts for eleven days.”

Another voice.

Then another.

The field fills with names, uses, debts, memories.

Not a chant.

A record.

Jessa sends each statement live. Torren photographs the perimeter. Children stand behind their parents and watch adults turn fear into testimony while Helix lights shine on the old stone.

The engineer’s hand hovers over the panel.

I look straight at him. “If you touch that wheel again, every person here will state exactly what you did to the water they depend on.”

The officer says, “You cannot obstruct emergency action.”

Salo’s voice comes from the slate, colder now. “No emergency has been established. Helix personnel are ordered to disengage from the cistern immediately.”

The engineer looks to the officer.

The officer looks to the transports.

For a moment, I think they might obey.

Then all three ships lower another meter.

Dust bursts across the field.

People stumble back. Nara shields her son’s face. Celia nearly falls. Rethan catches Celia’s elbow and shifts close enough to shield me from the worst of the grit.

The officer’s voice amplifies over the field. “Residents are creating unsafe conditions. Helix will secure the site.”

Rethan lifts his comm. “Tribunal, record refusal to comply.”

“Recorded,” Salo says.

The word carries across every relay.

I step out from Rethan’s shadow.

Not because I am stronger than fear.

Because fear has already been entered into evidence.

I walk to the perimeter line and kneel in the dust.

One by one, the valley follows.

Samuel. Nara. Celia. Torren, muttering curses as he drops to one knee. Jessa with the tribunal slate still raised. Farmers. Teachers. Children held back by parents but watching. On the relay screens, distant witnesses stand in their own halls and place hands over water cups, pump handles, old ledgers, whatever proof of shared survival they have.

I watch the officer through the dust.

“You can carry us away,” I say. “But you will have to do it on record.”

The ships hold above us.