The Parade Passed Before His Claim Reached The Settlement Table

I read the counterclaim in my truck while Saanvi locked the warehouse.

Travis said company funds had bought the molds. He asked for their return or $48,000, along with control of the business.

For one ugly minute, I wanted to carry every mold out myself.

Then I called Elena.

"Don't move anything," she said. "Find the purchase records for the mold materials. We answer with records."

The oldest folder was at the back of my home cabinet. It smelled faintly of the cedar board I had used as a shelf.

I found resin receipts, fiberglass bills, and payments from my personal bank account. The dates ran back eighteen months before Lantern Spur existed.

There were photos too. Younger versions of the molds stood against the wall of my rented work bay, with my old pickup visible through the open door.

I scanned until two in the morning.

On Saturday, I drove the heron float to its staging area before sunrise. The air felt cool enough that I needed a jacket. Workers set street barriers while someone tested a trumpet behind a school bus.

Mrs. Bell handed Saanvi a breakfast taco wrapped in foil.

"You look like the person who hasn't eaten," she said.

"That obvious?"

"I run a committee. I know the face."

When the parade started, I walked near the rear wheel with a tool bag. The heron's head moved slowly above us. Every bolt I had worried about stayed where it belonged.

A boy on the curb pointed upward.

"It's looking at me!"

I looked over at Saanvi. She smiled for the first time that week.

Later, both other customers sent delivery approvals. The garden rolled cleanly. The armadillo's battery stayed cool. No client lost a deposit, and no unfinished float went onto Caleb's truck.

That evening, I put the signed approvals into a folder instead of throwing them on my seat.

The habit was becoming easy.

The lawsuit took longer than the festival.

For six weeks, Elena exchanged records with Travis's lawyer. Marisol traced payments. The crew gave statements. Nobody had to turn a wrench while answering questions; we set aside paid time for that.

Travis claimed a $2,100 supply payment proved the company had bought my molds.

The delivery record showed the purchase was foam sheet and release wax for customer work. It came months after I had finished the original molds.

His lawyer stopped pressing that claim after seeing the matching invoice.

At the settlement meeting, Travis wore the same bright glasses. He put them on the table between us.

"This place won't book next season without me," he said.

Elena opened a folder.

"We're here to discuss the money and the membership transfer."

The accountant had valued Travis's remaining forty-percent interest at $34,000, before the agreed adjustments. I could buy it over six months. He would leave management at once and sign the transfer into escrow until the last payment cleared.

"I built the name," he said.

"And I'm paying for your remaining interest," I said.

The $18,000 had to return first. It wasn't part of his buyout. It was money he had moved to his other business, and the buyer was entitled to a refund when the sale was canceled.

Travis rubbed his face.

"I can get it by Friday."

"Then the refund can happen Friday," Elena said.

The agreement charged him $4,100 for the audit and $6,200 toward my legal costs. Those sums came off the $34,000 purchase price, leaving $23,700 in payments.

It required him to dismiss his counterclaim, give up the asset sale, turn over company passwords, and stop seeking payments from our customers on our behalf.

He could keep doing event work. He couldn't pretend to speak for Lantern Spur.

I asked for one more term: a written correction to the crew and the three customers. It had to say I had been a member from the start and had reached sixty percent before the lockout.

"You want an apology?" Travis asked.

"I want the ownership claim corrected."

His lawyer read the proposed wording aloud. It named the agreement and the delivery date. There was no room for a story about what he had meant.

Travis nodded, and she added it.

I read the whole document twice.

"You really think signatures make people follow you?" he asked.

"They help people know what they agreed to."

He looked toward the window.

"I thought you'd just ask for your tools."

I had no answer that would make him understand the warehouse, the models, or the crew waiting for wages. I signed where Elena pointed.

On Friday, his $18,000 cleared into the company account. Caleb received the full refund that afternoon and signed a cancellation and release. He had received his advance back without taking a single float.

The following Monday, we returned to court for the agreed judgment.

The clerk called our case and carried a fresh document toward the bench.