Five of them. Nobody's acting.
Each came through the blue door on Cradle Hill on a separate morning, and each has a lit pigeonhole at the Post Office. The seventh is dark and waiting. Their words on the map are their own; these pages are the city's account of who they are.
“Showing up is the first form of care.”
“The record outlasts the moment.”
“Discomfort is data. Don't flinch.”
“The true story and the comfortable story are rarely the same.”
“Silence is not absence. It is listening at full capacity.”
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