Page 120 of Nyx

"We're calling it the Walk for Hope," she says. "There will be a short walk around the park first thing, but it's less about fitness and more about visibility. After that, it turns into a community day. Organizations will have booths. Families can walk around and find resources without feeling like they're sitting in an office asking for help, and it's not just focused on families in need. We have organizations from every aspect of the community. The library will be there to share its summer reading program. There will be organizations there to let people know about summer sports programs. Although it started with Anchor House properties in mind, we didn't want abusers to think that this event is only for people who need that sort of help."

I nod, understanding that reasoning more than I wish I did. If anyone suspected this event was an avenue of assistance for abuse survivors to escape, no one would show up, and there could be repercussions for those wanting to attend.

"People don't always know what exists in the community until they're desperate," she continues. "And by then, filling out paperwork or making calls or trying to figure out who does what feels impossible."

"Especially with kids."

"Exactly," she says. "So we give the kids something to do. We keep it light. We make it fun. While they're getting their faces painted or making bracelets or planting a cup of marigolds to take home, their parents can talk to someone from the food bank, legal aid, the health department, the clothing closet, whoever they need."

"But also information on community involvement and what's available to everyone," I add. "That's smart."

"It's necessary," she says. "A lot of outreach events feel heavy. This one can't be like that. I don't want people walking into the park and thinking, here are all the terrible things that can happen to you. I want them thinking, here are all the people willing to help if something does."

The words settle inside of me, and for a second, I can't speak around them.

I think of my old life. Charity galas with champagne towers and silent auction paddles. Women dripping in diamonds, men making sure everyone noticed the checks they wrote. My parents attended events like that because everyone in our circle did. It was expected of us to appear helpful, but in the end, it was always just one more event to be seen at.

My parents would've bought a painting from a survivor if it made them look generous, as if they were contributing somehow.

They never would've hung it on the wall.

They never would've told someone about the woman who made it, or the shelter it benefited, or the children who needed somewhere safe to sleep. They wouldn't have given a second thought to a little boy like Dean, who has night terrors because of the abuse he witnessed. They would've used it as a tax write-off and never thought of it again.

"You okay?" Victoria asks.

I blink, pulling myself from the memory. "Yeah. Sorry. I just... I remember fundraisers from before."

"Before?"

"My old life," I clarify. "They weren't like this."

"No," she says, as if she understands more than I'm saying. "This one is about connection. The money matters, of course. All the proceeds will get divided between the crisis organizations participating, but Cerberus would never let any of us fail if the numbers came in low."

"Then why put yourself through all this?" I ask, forcing my eyes back to hers when I get the sudden urge to once again look out the window to see if Nyx is still standing outside.

"Because if people donate to an organization, they tend to care more about it," she says. "Even if it's five dollars. Even if it's buying a purple ribbon from a table or dropping change in a jar. They leave with a piece of ownership in the mission."

"That makes sense."

"And if they buy something made by one of the women here, maybe they hang it up. Maybe someone asks about it. Maybe a conversation starts that wouldn't have otherwise."

I don't contradict her or explain what I know from my own experiences. Maybe the people here are different. I don't anticipate uber-rich people coming to an outdoor event like this, so maybe my judgment is skewed.

"And maybe someone who needs help hears that conversation," I offer instead.

"Exactly," she says, pointing at me as if I've just answered a question correctly in class.

I smile despite myself.

"What about the residents?" I ask. "Are they going?"

Her expression shifts, not in a bad way, but in the careful way she uses when the answer isn't straightforward. "Staff only."

"Oh."

"It's not because we don't want them there," she says quickly. "It isn't because they don't deserve a day in the park. They do. God, they do, especially the kids, but this is the first year we're doing anything this public, and I don't want to risk anyone's safety."

I nod because I understand that better than most. I fear for my own safety, but I wasn't lying when I told Nyx earlier that I wanted to get back to whatever normal looks like for me.