The third day settled into something that surprised her.Routine.Not the old kind the packhouse routine of careful invisibility, of moving through spaces that belonged to other people's authority. This was different. The routine of work that had a shape because she had helped give it that shape.It felt, cautiously, like ownership.The good kind.The kind that didn't require taking anything from anyone.The working group had expanded by one.A woman named Cress had knocked on the administrative building door the previous evening and asked quietly if there was room for someone who had been managing the pack's internal communication records for three years and had, in the process, documented every instance of a formal complaint being quietly buried.Sable had opened the door wider without hesitation.Cress had sat down.Added her documentation to the growing file.And was now, on the third morning, an unremarkable fixture at the working table unremarkable in the best way. The way people
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