“Not anymore. Come see.”
She took Lenora to the rear fence. The tractor was closer now, its wide tires crushing weeds along the lane. The pilot platform swung slowly across the painted footprints. A worker pushed a traffic cone out of its path with his boot.
Lenora’s drill slipped from her hand and struck the deck.
“Where are the children?” Mara asked.
“At the community room, I think. They were supposed to meet there first.”
“Call every parent. Tell them not to enter the lane.”
Lenora ran inside.
Doreen stood motionless. She had written that message at six. She remembered each word: If we don’t act now, they’ll steal the path forever. She had meant to rally neighbors. She had never imagined her words could send children toward a machine.
Mara touched her elbow. “You know this street. I don’t. Which houses have gates?”
“Seven, nine, eleven, fourteen, and the old laundromat at the end.”
“We split up. I take the west end. You take the east.”
Doreen looked at the window in the distance. “What about what I did?”
“We deal with that after we make sure nobody gets hurt.”
They moved in opposite directions.
Doreen knocked on number eleven and found Mr. Padgett preparing to wheel his mother through the rear gate for a short walk. She told him the lane was closed. He asked who said so. She said she did, then corrected herself: the transport supervisor had warned them. He hesitated, recognized her voice from years of organizing street events, and agreed to stay inside.
At number nine she found a teenager loading folding chairs onto a handcart. He planned to take them to the rehearsal. She made him leave the cart and accompany her to number seven. His name was Eli, and he knew how to reach the other teenagers faster than the adults could.
At the old laundromat, the rear gate was chained but not locked. Fresh bicycle tracks ran beneath it.
Doreen felt cold.
She leaned close and heard voices on the other side of the factory wall. Two children were laughing. A third shouted that the mural station was almost ready.
She called through the chain-link. “Get away from the lane!”
A boy appeared between the fence slats. “Mrs. Pike? We’re painting the handprints.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Four.”
“Go back the way you came.”
“The west door’s locked.”
Doreen pulled the gate. The chain held. “Where’s your teacher?”
“She went to get brushes.”
A horn sounded again, longer this time.
The boy looked over his shoulder. “There’s a truck coming.”
“Move to the wall and stay there!” Doreen shouted.
She grabbed the chain and shook it uselessly. She had left her pickaxe in Mara’s yard, and for the first time in her life she wished she had carried the thing for a reason other than anger.
