Chapter 22 Emma
EMMA
The town hall is packed.
I’m backstage—well, behind a makeshift curtain that’s really little more than a bedsheet strung up between two poles—watching through a gap as people file in.
Every seat is taken and more keep coming, lining up along the walls, clustering in the back.
The local news crew has set up cameras. There’s a table at the front with microphones and name cards for the town council members who’ll be moderating.
This is real. This is happening.
“Miss Emma, I’m nervous.”
I look down to find one of my younger students clutching the hem of my shirt. She’s maybe seven, dressed in her best leotard with her hair pulled back so tight it makes her eyes look huge.
“Me too,” I admit, adjusting my crutches so I can put a hand on her shoulder. “But we’ve practiced this. You know the routine. And you know why we’re doing it, right?”
“To show people why Stoneheart matters.”
“Exactly.” I glance around at the other eleven kids, all in various states of nervous energy. “Remember, this isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing these people why this community is worth protecting.”
They nod, a few of them holding hands for support.
Through the gap in the curtain, I see Dad take his seat in the front row. Josie’s next to him. Bones is a few rows back, scanning the crowd with that focused intensity he gets when he’s assessing threats. Tank and Hawk are positioned near the exits. Casual. Watchful.
The room is a mix—elderly residents who’ve been here for decades, young families with kids, business owners, MC members in their cuts, and plenty of people I don’t recognize. The east side neighborhood showing up in force.
Mayor Roberts takes his seat at the front table, looking uncomfortable.
He’s in his seventies, heavyset, with the kind of face that’s probably spent more time smiling at ribbon-cuttings than making hard decisions.
Next to him are the five town council members—a mix of local business owners and longtime residents.
“All right, everyone.” Mayor Roberts taps the microphone, which squeals with feedback. Several people wince. “Let’s get started. Thank you all for coming tonight. I know this is—well, it’s an unusually large turnout for a town meeting.”
A few people laugh.
“We’re here to discuss the development proposals for the east side neighborhood,” the mayor continues. “But first, I understand we have a special presentation from some of our younger residents.”
That’s my cue.
I hobble out from behind the curtain, my surgical boot making an awkward thump with each step. The crowd quiets as I make my way to the microphone.
“Hi everyone. I’m Emma Armstrong.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “I teach dance at the community center, and when I heard about tonight’s meeting, I thought—who better to remind us what this community means than the kids who are growing up here?”
I gesture to the makeshift curtain and the twelve kids file out, taking their positions across the small stage area. They look so young, so nervous, so determined.
“They’ve put together a short performance,” I continue. “It’s not fancy. We’ve only had a couple of weeks to practice. But I hope it shows you what I’ve been reminded of while teaching them—that Stoneheart isn’t just a place. It’s home.”
I make my way back off the stage as carefully as I can, Bones already there to help me down the steps. I settle into the seat next to him, crutches propped against my chair.
The music starts—a simple piano piece I found that felt right. Hopeful but grounded. The kids move through the routine we practiced, their small bodies hitting marks with surprising precision.
It’s not Broadway. Several of them are off-count. One girl almost collides with the boy next to her. But there’s something about watching them that makes my chest tight.
They’re not performing because they have to. They’re performing because they want to. Because someone told them their voices matter, and they believed it.
The routine builds to the final sequence—all twelve kids moving in unison, their arms reaching up and out like they’re trying to hold something precious. Then they freeze, the music fades, and the room is silent for a heartbeat.
Then someone starts clapping.
Then someone else.
Then the whole room is on its feet, applauding these kids who just poured their little hearts into every single move.
I’m crying. Can’t help it. These kids, this moment, this town coming together—it’s everything I didn’t know I was looking for. Purpose that has nothing to do with being perfect. Belonging that has nothing to do with performance.
The kids take their bow, beaming, and file offstage. Several parents rush over to hug them. I see one mother openly weeping as she holds her daughter.
Mayor Roberts clears his throat. “That was—thank you. Thank you to Emma and the kids for that lovely presentation.” He adjusts his notes. “Now, we’ll open it up for public comment. Anyone who wishes to speak, please come to the microphone.”
Erica Olsen is the first to stand. She looks nervous but determined as she makes her way to the front.
“I’m Erica Olsen. I’ve lived on Maple Street for forty-two years.
My husband and I raised our three children in that house.
He passed five years ago, but I stayed because it’s home.
My roses are in that yard. My memories are in that house.
” Her voice wavers slightly. “Three months ago, a company called Carolina Properties started offering to buy my house. I said no. They came back. And back. And back. The last time, I asked them to stop, and they said they wouldn’t—not until I sold.
They made it clear they were never going away, and I got the sense it meant they’d start making things difficult for me. That’s when I went to the MC for help.”
She glances back at Dad, who nods encouragingly.
“I don’t want to sell my house,” Erica continues. “I don’t want luxury condos in my neighborhood. I want to stay in the home where I raised my family, where I know my neighbors, where I belong.”
She sits down to applause.
Others follow. Mr. Rooney talks about his corner store that’s been family-owned for three generations. Mrs. Yu describes how the neighborhood came together after her husband died. A young mother explains how affordable her rent is and how she’ll be priced out if development happens.
Then Duck stands.
He looks uncomfortable in the spotlight—this man who’s spent decades working on vehicles for the entire town, keeping his head down, being the club’s steady presence. But he makes his way to the microphone with the same deliberate calm he brings to everything.
“I’m Duck,” he says simply. “Most of you know me. I’ve lived in Stoneheart my whole life.
Sixty-eight years. I’ve watched this town change—some good, some bad.
But the thing that’s always stayed the same is the people.
We take care of each other. When Devil’s Bar burned last year, the community helped rebuild it.
When Summit first showed up, they tried to force folks out with fake violations, we fought back.
When they tried to dig up our roads, we fought that too.
Together in this very room. But now we face a new problem. ”
He pauses, looking around the room.
“These developers, they don’t care about Stoneheart. They care about profit. They want to tear down homes that have stories in every room, memories in every corner. They want to build something shiny and expensive that no one in this town can afford. That’s not progress. That’s erasure.”
The room is dead silent.
“So I’m asking you all to stand with us,” Duck continues.
“Come to the zoning hearings. Speak up. Make them know that this community won’t be bullied or bought.
We’re worth more than their money. We’ve been through hell and back in the last year.
Fire. Threats. People getting hurt and homes nearly lost. But I’m telling you, Stoneheart is stronger than any of that.
Stronger than anything these assholes or their money can toss at us.
We’re more than a town. We’re a defense system.
We’re a wall they can’t breach, and if they try, they’re going to learn what a community really looks like.
So don’t give up your homes. Don’t sell your memories.
Because nothing they build will ever be as permanent as what we’ve built together. ”
Duck steps back, head high, and the applause is so loud it’s almost violent.
People are on their feet, clapping, shouting agreement. I see several people wiping their eyes. Someone in the back yells, “Duck, you should run for mayor!”
Others pick up the call. “Yeah! Duck for mayor!”
Duck waves them off, embarrassed, but he’s smiling slightly. Mayor Roberts looks uncomfortable, shifting in his seat.
“All right, all right,” the mayor says, tapping his microphone. “Let’s maintain order. We have other speakers.”
A man in an expensive suit stands. He’s probably in his fifties, with perfect silver hair and the kind of tan that comes from golf courses, not construction sites. He makes his way to the microphone with easy confidence.
“Daniel Vernick,” he introduces himself. “I’m a businessman here in Stoneheart. I own several properties downtown, and I serve on the chamber of commerce. I want to address some of the concerns I’ve heard tonight.”
His voice is smooth, practiced. This is someone who’s used to being listened to.
“First, I want to say I understand the emotional attachment to your homes. I grew up in a small town too. I know what community means.” He smiles, and it looks genuine.
“But I also know that towns need to grow. Need to evolve. The development proposals for the east side would bring jobs, tax revenue, and new opportunities to Stoneheart.”
“At what cost?” someone yells from the crowd.