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Enough to suggest teenagers. Not enough to identify them.

When the boys admitted their latest prank, suspicion settled naturally on the Fletchers’ oldest children. Retaliation fit the timing. It also fit the ongoing hostility between the younger members of both communities.

Mom wanted the council present for the confrontation. I asked her not to.

That surprised her.

It surprised me too.

The old version of me would have approached the visit as a territorial dispute requiring witnesses, documentation, and clear terms. The current version still believed in documentation. He simply understood that not every conflict improved when treated as litigation.

I wanted the children to see one another as people before the adults turned the situation into pack versus clan.

The Fletcher property sat beyond a long gravel drive lined with sycamores. Their house was larger than Mom’s, built from dark wood and stone, with a porch wide enough to hold an entire family and several seasonal decorations that hadn’t been removed since spring.

A faded wooden bear stood near the steps wearing a raincoat.

The Kipner twins stared at it.

“Do not touch anything,” I said.

“We weren’t going to.”

“You were looking at the bear.”

We got out of the truck.

Aaron adjusted his collar. “Can I say I’m sorry first, then explain?”

“Yes.”

“What if I throw up?”

“Don’t aim at anyone.” I knocked.

Mr. Fletcher opened the door. He was broader than I remembered, with thick dark hair, a graying beard, and the wary look of a man who had spent months discovering offensive objects near his driveway.

His gaze moved from me to the boys. “Blackwell.”

“Fletcher.”

“What happened now?”

The question held too much experience.

“I’d like to speak with you and your wife,” I said. “The boys need to tell you something.”

Mr. Fletcher studied us for a moment before letting us in.

The Fletchers’ living room contained oversized furniture, family photographs, and a massive stone fireplace. Their youngest daughter sat on the rug building a tower from wooden blocks. She looked up, saw us, and immediately collected every block into her lap.

I didn’t blame her.

Mrs. Fletcher entered from the kitchen drying her hands on a dish towel. Her eyes narrowed. “I thought the council told your children to leave ours alone.”

“They did,” I said.

The boys lined up near the couch. Aaron’s face had gone pale again.