Memento Nora by Angie Smibert Page A

panels on the roof of the pavilion. Mrs. Brooks looked at me as if trying to judge what I had to offer. “In the words of Maya Angelou, ‘Nothing works unless you do,’” she said finally. I wasn’t sure if that was directed at Micah or me.
     
    While she’d been talking, the other woman, Melinda, had pulled out a half-dozen round loaves of golden brown bread with a big wooden paddle. She laid them out to cool with another half-dozen or so loaves. She took one of the hot loaves and cut off a couple hunks for us and wrapped them in a clean towel.
     
    “There’s still some stew left,” Melinda said as she handed us the bread. Her voice was as airy as wind chimes.
     
    Micah scooped up the stew and motioned me toward the tables. Most of them seemed to be made out of doors. A couple of people said hi to us. One ladled out something from a big pot into two bowls, and Micah and I sat down at a pale yellow table with GENTS stenciled on it.
     
    The stew in the bowl looked and smelled really good, but not as good as the bread. I wolfed it down while Micah told me about the Village. His talking didn’t slow his eating at all. He sopped up stew with a hunk of bread and inhaled it without missing a breath.
     
    The Village is only a couple years old, Micah explained. Mr. Shaw, the owner of the salvage yard (and Bridget), let them stay there as long as there was no trouble and they helped out in the business when needed. Micah had helped collect salvage from house renovations many times. Most people throw out the beautiful old wood and iron and even stained glass when they put in fancy new kitchens and bathrooms or security measures like blast windows and fortified media rooms. Some folks still care about preserving old houses, and they buy fixtures and fencing from Black Dog—but not as much as they used to, which is why Mr. Shaw was cool with having people live on the property in exchange for a little work. Then business had gotten so bad that he and his family had lost their house and moved into the Village themselves.
     
    All residents have to have some skill and be approved by everyone before they move in. Micah and his mom had moved in last year, he explained, after they’d lost their apartment downtown and lived on the streets for a few months. For some reason his mom’s security score is very low, as are a lot of folks’ scores in the Village. That means they have to buy a lot of things the old-fashioned way: with cash. Without a good security score, you can’t buy or rent a decent place. Or even get some jobs. And forget about getting an ID chip.
     
    Anyway, after living out of shelters or in their car, Micah and his mom ended up here on the recommendation of Mrs. Brooks. Micah’s mom and Mrs. Brooks had worked at the same retirement home a while back. Mrs. Brooks had been the chef there before some big company took over.
     
    “I think Mrs. Brooks used to teach English before she lost her house,” Micah said as he licked the bowl. “She’s always quoting poetry at me.”
     
    Micah’s mom is still a nurse at Sunny Oaks. And when she gets home, she takes care of everyone in the Village, at least until they have to go to the emergency room. She’s stitched up cuts, taped up sprains, nursed people through the flu, and even delivered a baby or two.
     
    After we finished our stew, Micah showed me the gardens and playgrounds. The Village grows fresh vegetables and herbs, and barters or pools its money for meat and flour and sugar. Most of the residents have jobs—or they work for Mr. Shaw. They just need a safe place to live.
     
    We sat on the top of the jungle gym Micah’d made out of scrap metal and wrought iron, and I could understand why he felt safe there. I felt safe there, too. Maybe it was just the bread warming my insides. Or the smell of lavender from the gardens. Or the murmur of friendly voices. Or the sight of children playing. I reached out and took his hand.
     
    He looked pleasantly