The telephone pole at the end of Candlewake’s gravel turnoff had been fitted with a white flour sack.
Mara saw it through the mud-spattered windshield of the utility van before Gideon cut the engine. The cloth hung limp in the autumn air, tied to the rusted cross-arm with yellow binder twine. Carl had used the same twine on the snow fence before the impossible nights began.
“Courier didn’t come to the gate,” Gideon said, resting his wrist against the steering wheel. His rifle lay across his knees. “Left the flag and pulled back to the bend. That’s compound discipline. They want us to see the cloth before we see a truck.”
Mara stepped down from the cab into the cold slush. Her right palm, bound in fresh linen from Ruth Danner’s cupboard, ached when she closed her fingers, but the swelling had softened. Behind them in the van bed, Jonah Price sat beside two empty water drums.
The envelope pinned beneath the twine was heavy manila, sealed with a flat wire staple. Mara worked it loose with her pocketknife:
To Mara Vale, Registrar, Candlewake Shelter. Request for formal entry and administrative conference today at fourteen hundred hours. Agenda: Cessation of inter-shelter supply interdiction, orderly restoration of regional custodial licensing, and humanitarian transfer terms for non-viable nodes. Single attendee: Director Silas Venn. Unarmed. Witnessed search and restricted access conceded. Awaiting gate signal.
