Alma Reyes had planned the founding-anniversary festival for a full year, and this morning the town square she needed for it was a pit. She stood at the edge of the torn ground with fifteen hand-lettered banners in her arms. The council's crew had ripped up every paving stone to fix the sunken clock tower. Mud swallowed the spot where her stage was supposed to stand. The whistle around her neck felt useless. There was no square left to whistle at. A worker in a dirt-caked vest leaned on his shovel near the pit. He looked her banners over and shook his head. "Tower's got rot six feet up," he said. "Square stays torn till fall. No one's celebrating here." Alma did not argue. She turned in a slow circle, hunting for flat ground big enough. Every street was too narrow. Every yard was too small. Her braid stuck to her sweaty neck as the sun climbed higher. Then she saw it. Across from the pit stood a house with a wide, welcoming porch and a deep front yard. The yard was empty, level, and dry. It could hold a stage, booths, and half the town. Alma marched up the porch steps and knocked. No one answered. So she did what she always did. She started planning it herself. She unrolled a banner across the porch rail. She paced off the yard for booth rows. By the time the owner came around the corner, she had already claimed his home for the festival. He was a broad man in a tool belt, a wrench in one hand. Alma knew him. Bram Mulley fixed everything in Flintburn for free, yet he had left his own front door hanging crooked for two years. He stopped cold at the sight of a banner tied to his rail. "That's my house," Bram said. His voice was flat, careful. "It's perfect," Alma said. "The square's ruined. Your yard is the only flat space left. I'll set the stage right here." Bram looked at his crooked door, then at her. "You didn't ask." The words landed hard. Alma opened her mouth, then closed it. She had never once asked. She looked at the porch, at the door he wouldn't let anyone touch, at the yard she'd already carved up in her head. "Then I'm asking now," she said. "Please. I have nowhere else." Bram was quiet a long moment. Then he set down his wrench. "Fine. The yard. But you fix nothing, move nothing, and you leave my door alone." "Deal," Alma said. She had her festival ground. But as Bram walked back inside past his broken door, Alma looked at the bare yard and understood her new trouble. She had a place now, and only weeks to fill it. And the man whose home she'd taken had just made it clear he wanted nothing to do with her.