Page 124 of Pocket Wife

So it has built a place to call mercy.

And if Corvek has his way, mercy will become the new word for exile.

CHAPTER 37

LUCY

The valley has thirty minutes to become a water map.

I stand before the meeting hall board while Jessa wipes away Helix says, We can prove, They can hurt and replaces it with something more urgent.

Clinic.

School.

Elders.

Households.

Fields.

Twelve hours is not long enough to kill a valley.

It is long enough to frighten one into making bad choices.

I take the chalk from Jessa and write across the top of the board:

No one hides water. No one is shamed for needing it.

Behind me, the hall is no longer one crowd. It has become clusters of fear. Parents calculating storage jugs. Farmers whispering about seedlings. Elders pretending not to listen. Nara stands with her sleeping son pressed against her shoulder, her face drawn and determined.

Reviewer Noll’s panel remains open beside Adjudicator Salo’s. Corvek waits in the fourth display, calm as if he has not just tried to empty their homes through a safety filing.

“Emergency continuity panel,” Noll says, “submit a supply plan.”

I turn to my panel. “Nara. Clinic numbers.”

Nara blinks once, then comes forward. “Treatment basins, drinking supply, sanitation, fever cooling, medicine mix. Twelve-hour minimum…” She looks down at the slate Jessa pushes into her hand. “Four hundred liters if nothing goes wrong. Six hundred if we receive new patients.”

“Write six,” I say.

Nara looks up. “That is too much.”

“That is the point of minimums. They lie.”

Jessa writes: Clinic — 600.

I look at Samuel. “School.”

“Children can be sent home.”

“No. If we scatter everyone at once, parents panic and Helix calls it disorder. School stays open as a supervised gathering point. Drinking only. No wash basins unless needed.”

Samuel nods slowly. “One hundred liters.”

“Write one-fifty,” I say.

Jessa writes it.