By the time Tessa reached the first neighborhood meeting, somebody had painted an arrow on a wall.
It pointed toward a route that would not take a loaded cart.
The paint was still wet. A boy stood beside it with a tin in his hand, watching an older woman argue with the shopkeeper whose wall he had used. The woman said at least someone was doing something. The shopkeeper asked whether she intended to carry his wife over the broken steps at the far end.
Tessa stopped between them without touching the boy.
“That turn is wrong,” she said.
The woman held up the map. “It’s on this.”
“Yes. That version was still being checked.”
“It says evacuation.”
