The Final Order Came Home Beside A Finished Wooden Otter

"Personally owned equipment made available for company use," Garrett read.

He read it without his booking voice.

The judge asked whether the signature below it was his. He said it was. Then she asked whether his own $1,200 was listed as payment for equipment.

"It says operating cash," he answered.

The rest of the hearing was plain. There were questions about dates, a few page numbers to correct, and a final chance for both lawyers to speak.

I had expected some great feeling when it ended. What I felt was hunger. I had eaten half a piece of toast before leaving home.

Nora bought me soup afterward. We sat near the restaurant window with our coats over our knees.

"You told the truth clearly," she said.

"I wanted to tell her about every time he left my name off a poster."

"You told her what she needed to decide the claims."

I stirred my soup until I could eat it.

The written decision came two weeks later.

Garrett's claim to half the rig was denied. The court found that the listed equipment belonged to me. It also awarded me $2,400 in unpaid earnings, with the allowed court costs added separately.

The decision referred to our agreement, the original schedule, and the records of payment. It did not treat the changed pages as a transfer I had approved.

I read those sentences several times.

Then I called Nora instead of calling Garrett.

Her total bill had reached $1,850. The judgment did not give me back every dollar I had spent. Still, I had my tools, a clear record, and the earnings he had kept.

Nora handled the final winding up of Lantern Fold. Marta prepared the closing account and the figures for our final business filing. We returned what belonged to each of us and closed the shared account after the last payments cleared.

I did not take his sales notes or his old mailing lists. I built my own list from people who asked to hear from me.

Garrett paid my judgment in full before the collection deadline Nora gave his lawyer.

Helena later confirmed that the festival had received its $3,600 back. Both libraries confirmed the return of their $630 advances. He had arranged those payments himself; none came out of my show fee or my judgment.

Riverglass did not offer him another contract. Helena kept the two schedules and the email trail in its closed vendor file.

No one asked me to forgive him so the paperwork could end.

In April, Garrett came to my workroom to collect a box of his old programs. Nora had arranged the pickup, and Tess was there helping me repair a screen seam.

He stayed at the door.

"I never thought you'd actually stop the show," he said.

"I didn't stop our show. You locked out one of its two performers."

He looked at the cases lined against my wall.

"If they knew you could do it without me, what would they need me for?"

There it was, finally, without a joke wrapped around it.

"For good bookings," I said. "For fair deals. For telling the truth about who made what."

He shifted the box against his hip.

"I was good at some of that."

"You were."

I did not offer him a key.

He left with his programs, and Tess went back to the seam.

That spring, I performed at the library that had booked me directly. Its check was made out to Emi Takahashi. The contract named my helper, my equipment, the fee, and the time we needed to load in.

I still worked behind a screen. I liked the dark there, and the small pull of a rod between my fingers. Being seen did not require me to give that up.

In May, I fixed Not Yet's elbow at last. I added the river mark I had planned for his side and held him against a lamp.

His paw lifted smoothly. His tail made a soft curve in the light.

I named him Homeward, gave him number thirty-eight, and entered his materials in a fresh ledger. I kept the old green one in the locked drawer.

Soup Spoon still needed feet. Long Tuesday had become a quite decent fox, though I was keeping the nickname until his jaw moved freely. There was room on the bench for both of them. I brushed a little pile of curls into my palm and cleared a place for the next blank.

Outside my open window, a delivery van stopped. Helena had sent the signed contract for next fall: two performances, $3,200, my name printed correctly above the equipment schedule.

I placed it beside Homeward on the sill. The river wind lifted one corner of the new contract, then let it settle flat in the quiet light.