Chapter 13
MAYA
Iwake up with a mission and twelve cans of black beans.
The building's monthly potluck is tomorrow night, which gives me exactly twenty-four hours to transform our neighbors from polite acquaintances who complain about noise levels into a coalition of orc rights activists. Or at least people willing to sign a petition.
"This is either brilliant or completely insane," I mutter, dumping the beans into my largest pot. The Save the Orc campaign starts with comfort food.
My phone vibrates with a text from Dex: Immigration lawyer says character witnesses help. Lots of them. Make it happen.
Right. No pressure.
I spend the morning crafting the perfect petition language, formal enough to sound legitimate, personal enough to tug heartstrings. "Ursak Irontongue: Valued Community Member, Dedicated Scholar, Really Quiet Neighbor (Most of the Time)."
The hardest part is figuring out how to approach this without making Ursak feel like a charity case. We agreed on no more hiding, but there's a difference between transparency and turning someone into a public project.
I'm still debating petition strategies when Mrs. Albion from 2A knocks on my door, holding a covered dish that smells like heaven.
"For tomorrow," she says, lifting the foil to reveal perfectly arranged dumplings. "Kimchi pork. Very spicy."
"They look amazing. Thank you."
"Your neighbor, the big one. He help me carry groceries last week. Very polite." She pauses. "I hear he has trouble with papers?"
Word travels fast in apartment buildings. "Immigration hearing. This Friday."
Mrs. Albion nods gravely. "My cousin, same problem. Ten years ago. Community letters helped." She pats my arm. "You let me know what I can do."
Maybe this won't be as hard as I thought.
By six o'clock Thursday evening, the community room buzzes with more activity than I've seen since move-in day. The long folding tables groan under an impressive array of dishes that somehow tell the entire story of our building's diversity.
Mrs. Albion's kimchi sits next to Mr. Rodriguez's tres leches cake. The Ethiopian coffee ceremony setup from 3C fills one corner with aromatic smoke, while college students from the top floor contribute what appears to be a casserole made entirely of different colored mac and cheese varieties.
And then there's my contribution: a massive pot of black bean chili that I've been stress-stirring for the past hour, waiting for the right moment to bring up the petition.
"Maya!" Ursak's voice carries across the room, and I turn to see him navigating between tables with a platter that looks like it could feed half the building. Slow-roasted boar ribs, judging by the smell. "I brought traditional orcish feast food. Though I had to substitute boar for pork shoulder."
"It smells incredible." I stand on tiptoe to peek under the foil. "Did you really slow-roast this all day?"
"Sixteen hours. Started at two this morning."
Only Ursak would treat a neighborhood potluck like a diplomatic dinner. "Ursak, about tonight—"
"Ms. Ruiz! Mr. Irontongue!" Ms. Cavanaugh's voice cuts through the chatter like a fire alarm. She approaches with a large glass bowl filled with what appears to be neon green punch. "I see you've both contributed to our little gathering."
"Ms. Cavanaugh." I smile cautiously. "What's in the punch?"
"Grass tea blend. Very healthful. Lots of antioxidants." She sets the bowl down with obvious pride. "My grandmother's recipe from County Cork."
Ursak examines the punch with genuine interest. "Fascinating. We have a similar preparation in the mountain villages. Though ours uses alpine moss instead of grass."
"Really?" Ms. Cavanaugh's eyes light up. "I'd love to hear about the preparation method."
I watch in amazement as our notoriously rule-obsessed building manager and the neighbor she's filed three noise complaints about bond over fermented plant beverages. Maybe tonight really will work.
The petition burns like a folded secret in my back pocket.
…
"Speech! Speech!" someone calls out as we finish the main course. I look around to see who they're talking to and realize all eyes are on me.
"Oh, I didn't prepare—"
"Come on, Maya," Mr. Rodriguez grins. "You organized this whole thing. Say something."
My heart hammers as I stand up, suddenly aware of thirty-something neighbors watching expectantly. Ursak catches my eye from across the room and gives me the tiniest encouraging nod.
"Right. Well." I clear my throat. "I guess I wanted to bring everyone together because.
.. because we're all in this weird situation where we live inches apart but barely know each other.
We share walls and heating complaints and the occasional elevator small talk, but we don't really know who we're sharing space with. "
A few murmurs of agreement ripple through the crowd.
"Like, I had no idea Mrs. Albion makes dumplings that could probably end world hunger. Or that the college kids upstairs are apparently conducting groundbreaking research in cheese fusion." This gets a laugh. "Or that Mr. Rodriguez throws a quinceanera-level celebration every time the Cubs win."
"Hey, they deserve it," Mr. Rodriguez calls out, which gets an even bigger laugh.
"But here's the thing." I take a breath, feeling the petition crinkle in my pocket.
"One of our neighbors is facing a really tough situation.
Ursak—" I gesture toward him, and he freezes like a deer in headlights.
"Ursak has been part of this community for three years.
He's helped half of you carry groceries, fixed Mrs. Patterson's leaky faucet, and somehow never complained when my salsa music practice got out of hand. "
"Your salsa music is lovely, dear," Mrs. Patterson calls out supportively.
"Liar, but thank you." I grin, then take another breath. "Ursak's facing an immigration hearing tomorrow. And while I know it's not really our business, I thought... maybe it could be. Maybe being neighbors means something more than just tolerating each other's cooking smells."
The room goes quiet. I can hear the coffee ceremony burbling in the corner and Sir Pouncealot meowing somewhere in the hallway.
"So I wrote up a petition. Character witness statements.
Something that shows the immigration court that Ursak isn't just a case number.
He's someone who belongs here. Someone who makes this place better.
" I pull out the petition, hands slightly shaking.
"But only if people want to sign. No pressure. I just thought—"
"Where do I sign?"
The voice comes from an unexpected source: Ms. Cavanaugh, who's standing up with a pen already in hand.
"I… really?"
"Mr. Irontongue helped me install my new air conditioning unit last month. Wouldn't take a penny for it. Said it was 'neighborly duty.'" She walks over with surprising determination. "Plus, anyone who knows the difference between County Cork grass tea and regular lawn clippings deserves to stay."
A ripple of laughter and agreement moves through the room. Mrs. Albion stands up next, then Mr. Rodriguez, then the college kids. Soon there's an actual line forming.
I catch Ursak's eye across the room. His expression is unreadable, but there's something soft around his eyes that wasn't there before.
"Maya." He appears at my elbow as neighbors continue signing. "You didn't have to—"
"Yes, I did. We're neighbors. This is what neighbors do."
Before he can respond, chaos erupts from the food table.
Sir Pouncealot, the cat who lives with Mrs. Patterson but treats the entire building as his personal kingdom—, has somehow launched himself directly into my chili pot. Black beans and cat go flying in all directions as he scrambles for purchase on the slippery rim.
"Sir Pouncealot, no!" Mrs. Patterson shrieks, rushing toward the disaster.
The cat achieves escape velocity and lands squarely in Mrs. Albion's kimchi, which sends him ricocheting toward the boar ribs with a yowl of indignation.
Ursak lunges forward to protect his sixteen-hour masterpiece, but Sir Pouncealot uses his massive shoulder as a launching pad toward the punch bowl.
"Not the grass tea!" Ms. Cavanaugh cries.
But it's too late. Cat meets punch in a spectacular collision that sends neon green liquid splashing across three tables and at least six people.
Sir Pouncealot, now thoroughly soaked and smelling like fermented lawn clippings, sits in the center of the carnage and begins calmly grooming his paw as if this was all according to plan.
The room falls silent for exactly three seconds.
Then someone, I think it's Mr. Rodriguez, starts laughing. Real, deep belly laughter that's immediately contagious. Mrs. Albion points at the green-tinted cat and dissolves into giggles. Even Ms. Cavanaugh, covered in her grandmother's punch recipe, begins chuckling.
"Well," Ursak says solemnly, surveying the disaster. "This is why we serve buffet-style."
That does it. The entire room erupts. People are laughing so hard they're crying, which makes them laugh harder. Sir Pouncealot, apparently satisfied with his work, hops down from the table and struts toward the door like a furry green emperor.
"I guess this is what community looks like," I manage between gasps of laughter.
"Food fights and drunk cats?" Ursak grins.
"Exactly."
As we start the cleanup process, which involves a lot of paper towels and ongoing giggles every time someone discovers a new splash of green punch, I notice the petition making its way around the room. People are still signing between wiping down chairs and salvaging uncontaminated food.
Ms. Cavanaugh appears at my elbow with a handful of soaked napkins. "You know, dear, in all my years managing this building, tonight's the first time it's actually felt like home."
"Even with the cat-induced food explosion?"
"Especially with the cat-induced food explosion." She grins, an actual, warm grin that transforms her entire face. "Some of the best communities are built on shared disasters."
Across the room, Ursak is helping Mrs. Albion transfer uncontaminated dumplings to a clean plate, patiently listening as she explains her grandmother's folding technique.
The late evening light streams through the community room windows, highlighting the mess and laughter and the petition still making its rounds.
Hope flutters like something with wings.
Tomorrow is Friday. Tomorrow is the hearing.
But tonight, we're neighbors. We're a community. Ursak isn't facing this alone.
The petition comes back to me with thirty-seven signatures, including one in Ms. Cavanaugh's precise handwriting that reads: "A credit to our building and an asset to any community lucky enough to have him."
I catch Ursak's eye across the crowded, chaotic room. He's got a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth, and when our gazes meet, that smile blooms into something bright and certain.
Twelve days, I think. But twelve days with thirty-seven neighbors on our side feels like pretty good odds.