The Last Company Papers Cleared Before Our New Season Began

Ellis's final accounting fit in a thin folder inside the thick envelope.

Most of the weight came from the proof: bank pages, refund receipts, signed school cancellations, and the papers ending Beacon Sky's business.

I spread them across my workbench. The projector stood beside me, cooling after a test.

Every school deposit had been returned. Celia's $18,000 refund had cleared. The trust account had paid out the full $32,400 and held no balance. Gideon had paid Ellis's closing bill from his own funds, as agreed.

The final records showed no unpaid company debts. The old booking phone was shut off. The website displayed the agreed notice that Beacon Sky had closed and could no longer accept payments.

I signed the last closing approval. Ellis sent me the accepted state filing later that week.

I made a copy for my home files and put the original beside the judgment. My wife's old advice had carried me through the worst weeks. This time, I left my future self a short note on top: Everything paid. All slides home. Then I wrote the date and checked it against the calendar.

I did not need to add anything about Gideon.

Gideon's role was finished. He could still sell promises somewhere, but he could no longer sell my dates, my dome, or my stars.

His final required statement listed the preview drive he had surrendered and confirmed that he kept no archive copies. Ruth had received the drive with the rest of the property. It held the same twelve low-resolution previews Celia had described, and nothing else from the collection.

Ruth told me to keep the case records even though the dispute was over.

“I already bought another binder,” I said.

“Of course you did.”

There was no new bill attached to that call. Her settlement total had covered the last work. The enforcement costs had been repaid. For the first time in months, opening an envelope did not make my stomach hurt.

By late April, I had completed all twenty-four replacement school days. Each had a separate North Pin order at $1,200. The new season's gross income was $28,800 before my costs.

Some visits had moved by weeks. One moved twice because of a boiler repair. That principal called the change a delay and apologized for it. I found the clear words strangely kind.

The Warwick principal came to my final show of that group.

“I was hard on you in the library,” he said.

“You had paid for something your students hadn't received.”

“They received it today.”

Through the open gym doors, we heard children arguing about which stars they could find from home.

He handed me the signed service slip.

“Put us down for next spring. Through your company.”

“I'll send an order.”

“I know you will.”

Celia wrote in May. She included the refund confirmation and asked whether I offered a single evening show for families at her center.

We spoke about exits, ceiling height, and power. She paid the deposit named in a short rental agreement. It covered one show, with me operating the system. No slides or image rights changed hands.

Her event went well. She helped carry the empty cases afterward.

“I should have started by renting your time,” she said.

“A lot of people think the machine does the whole job.”

“It doesn't tell a frightened child where the door is.”

I thanked her for saying that.

Yara and I had coffee after the last spring invoice cleared. She brought no forms. I left my binder in the van.

“What will you do with a free afternoon?” she asked.

“Clean the projector gear.”

She stared at me.

“After that.”

“Walk by the water.”

“Start there.”

We walked along the harbor with our cups. I told her I had spent years being proud of how little trouble I caused.

“You were doing the work,” she said.

“I should have read the monthly bank pages myself.”

“Now you will.”

She did not turn it into a lesson about trusting nobody. I liked her for that. We stopped where a small boat knocked gently against its fenders and watched the tide lift it.

That summer, North Pin booked a family afternoon at a school in Newport. I arrived early and set the projector on its marks. The school had paid the full agreed fee. The signed order sat in my van.

Before the doors opened, I checked the winter slide. The little repaired star had held. Under my lamp, its corner cross looked plain and useful.

I put the single-hair brush back in its box and closed the latch.

At the entrance flap, Yara arrived with the first group of children. I lifted the cloth for them. Their voices softened as they settled on the floor, and above their waiting faces, the small lights came on.