‘Like she was waiting for a bus.’

‘People do strange things when they’re desperate.’

‘People do strange things when they’re cruel.’

‘Both can be true.’ He handed her an invoice. ‘Don’t go swimming today.’

By one, Harper had changed clothes, packed the cardboard sun into a flat box, and driven toward the old icehouse. She told herself she was going only to recover property. There would be no speeches and no promise to restart the program. But she carried in the trunk the canvas tool roll she had used at Bellweather Hall, including a pair of fabric shears, small clamps, and a pencil worn almost to the metal ferrule.

The icehouse occupied a long brick building beside an unused rail spur. Fresh banners hung from the doors: BRIGHTLINE PRESENTS: THE WONDERFUL CITY. A smaller line announced A FAMILY EXPERIENCE CREATED FOR OUR COMMUNITY.

Harper entered through a loading entrance. Behind a temporary partition, three adults were painting a foam castle. Farther inside, lights shone through two enormous white screens. A moving city of cardboard silhouettes floated across the fabric.

She knew every corner of that city.

The bridge with three crooked posts had been built by the Ortiz brothers. The crooked bakery with the turning chimney was Nell’s. The row of windows shaped like musical notes belonged to a girl named Sachi, who had decided that even buildings ought to sing. Someone had cut the bottom from the children’s handmade stage and mounted it on expensive rails.

A man in a navy blazer stepped into her path.

‘Visitors need to check in at the front,’ he said.

‘I’m Harper Lane. These sets came from my workshop.’

His smile settled into the polished shape of a customer-service apology. ‘Of course. I’m Julian Marr. Creative director. We were hoping you might visit.’

‘Who made the show?’

‘Our team developed the experience from materials available through the hall.’

‘Who made the city?’

Julian gestured toward the screen. ‘The city is part of a collaborative creative ecosystem.’

‘Children made that city.’

His smile did not move. ‘And their creativity inspired something wonderful.’

A girl carrying a bucket of paint looked up. Harper recognized her instantly. Sachi was eleven, though she looked older beneath the huge headphones around her neck.

‘Sachi?’

The girl froze.

‘You told us you were sick,’ Sachi said.

Harper had told Gemma she needed time off. Someone had apparently translated that into illness.

‘I should have talked to you myself,’ Harper said.

Julian stepped between them. ‘Our young volunteers have a strict rehearsal schedule.’

‘Is Sachi performing?’

‘We haven’t finalized the cast.’