“Will they take it?” she asked.
“Not just because they ask,” Rebecca said. “We can challenge the motion, and we can arrange a secure review if the court decides one is needed.”
“It's mine.”
“Yes.”
“Every page is mine.”
“Some contain other people's stories, and we have obligations to them too. Owning the paper isn't the whole question.”
Mira hated how much sense that made. A week earlier she'd insisted on protecting Samira's privacy. Now the same principle could require her to let a judge examine her own notebook. Rebecca promised that whatever happened, they would seek a procedure that honored consent and avoided public exposure.
Before they left, Mira overheard Rebecca speaking with another advocate about a family unable to attend court because of lost work hours. The advocates were arranging a remote interview and translation support. It reminded Mira how fortunate she was that her father understood forms and her mother translated difficult language for people every day. Many families whose children had been flagged did not know the word appeal, let alone the steps required to file one.
Rebecca explained that the clinic could not turn every student's complaint into a public lawsuit. It had limited attorneys and a growing queue. The practical goal was to change the review process so families would not need attorneys to ask why their children were classified in a certain way. Mira thought about the big binder on the conference table and the small stack of bills her father kept by the toaster. The case wasn't a movie in which an expensive lawyer arrived at precisely the right moment. It was a long series of phone calls people could barely afford to make.
While attorneys drafted responses, Caleb took Mira for a walk along the river. The path was crowded with joggers and tourists. They stopped to watch an artist sketch the old stone bridge. Mira admitted she had begun to wonder if refusing Price's seat exchange had made everything worse. If she'd simply taken 2B, perhaps he would have left her alone.
“He was beside you either way,” Caleb said. “And the rules about contacting you existed before you boarded.”
“But people keep saying I started a fight.”
“People like a story where one small choice causes everything, because then the world feels controllable. Real events have histories.”
She considered the thought as barges moved across the water. The lawsuit had begun months before Flight 618. The company had obtained the contract years before the lawsuit. Children had complained long before any adults listened. The window seat was only the point at which two lines crossed in public.
Back at the clinic, Rebecca received a call from a teacher in their home district. She stepped into another room and returned twenty minutes later carrying a sheet of names. The teacher would talk only through counsel because she feared losing her job. She worked in the school's “intervention center,” where adults reviewed the risk scores. Her name was Nadia Heller, the woman Mira had heard mention the override queue.
Mira sat upright. “She knows about it.”
“She says the overrides were often requested by administrators,” Rebecca answered. “But she hasn't agreed to let us use her name.”
“What made her call?”
“The hearing. She saw you answer questions.”
Mira felt a surprising rush of compassion for the woman who had once looked past her in a school hallway. Adults could be frightened too. Mira didn't have to forgive the decisions they'd made to understand their fear.
That afternoon, Caleb received a formal letter from the district announcing a review of his professional conduct. It questioned whether he had encouraged students to disclose protected information to influence a contract dispute. His suspension, previously unpaid but temporary, could become permanent. He folded the letter and put it in his pocket before Mira could read the last paragraph.
She saw anyway. “They want to punish you for helping me.”
“They want to review an allegation,” he said. “We'll respond with facts.”
“You always say that when you're upset.”
“It's useful advice when I'm upset.”
Mira took his hand. His palm was rough from repairing old furniture on weekends to help pay clinic expenses. He had been a public-school psychologist because he believed a student might become somebody different if one adult listened at the right moment. The suspension had hurt him more than he admitted.
That night Rebecca filed an opposition to Crownbridge's motion, offering a confidential index of notebook pages and private releases from consenting families. She argued that a corporation accused of mishandling children's data should not gain sweeping control over a child's account of her own experiences.
Caleb made a budget on the back of an envelope while Mira slept. He listed rent, school supplies, medical copayments, and the car repair he had postponed twice. Then he crossed out the word emergency beside the fund they had already exhausted. Elena sat beside him and suggested calling her sister for help, a prospect Caleb resisted until he realized pride was becoming an expense the family could not afford. They agreed to ask for a temporary loan if necessary and to tell Mira the truth without making her feel indebted for their choices. It was not a heroic plan. It was the kind ordinary families made when doing the right thing did not stop the bills from arriving.
Near midnight a court notice arrived. The judge ordered an expedited hearing, but the notice contained another provision nobody had expected: Crownbridge was to preserve every version of the manual-override audit logs, including deleted and archived copies, pending forensic inspection.
Rebecca smiled for the first time all evening. “Now the question isn't only whether they get your notebook,” she said. “It's whether we get to see theirs.”
Across town, in a dark office with a wall of silent monitors, a Crownbridge technician stared at the same notice and reached for a phone she had promised herself she would never use again.