The fluorescent buzz overhead mixed with the low hum of dozens of conversations, forming a dense cloud of sound that filled the community center's event hall. Folding tables lined the perimeter, each one draped in branded cloth and covered in stacks of brochures, free pens, and half-filled sign-in sheets. Job fair signs dangled from plastic clips, swaying gently under the vented air.
Mia adjusted the collar of her oversized jacket and pulled the cap lower over her brow. She kept her pace slow, trailing a few steps behind Sarah, who moved cautiously into the crowd.
Sarah's movements were precise—each step a quiet choice. Her eyes roved over the booths, pausing now and then to scan a sign or flip through a pamphlet. She held a canvas tote loosely in one hand, already containing three folded flyers and a neatly clipped badge with her alias printed in bold.
Lena Morris. Age seventeen. Seeking opportunities in admin and retail.
Mia had printed the name tag that morning with trembling fingers.
She had chosen the font deliberately—plain sans serif, authoritative but not aggressive. She'd even laminated it with her own hand-press kit, sealing the name into something tangible. Something Sarah could claim, even if temporarily.
Now, Sarah wore it clipped to her jacket, oblivious to its symbolism.
"Would you like to hear about our internship program?" a woman in business casual asked brightly.
Sarah hesitated, then stepped closer to the booth.
Mia watched from a distance, standing behind a display of résumé-building guides. Her heart thumped with each word she saw Sarah exchange, the tilt of her head, the way she accepted a trifold pamphlet without fumbling.
There was poise in the way Sarah stood. A stillness forged from effort. Mia saw the tension in her fingers, the way she pressed her thumb to the seam of her pants as if to ground herself.
She was holding.
Mia let her own breath out slowly.
She moved toward the outer walkway, close enough to remain in Sarah's peripheral awareness but far enough not to intrude. She caught glimpses of mock interview sign-ups, skill stations, and employer tables set beneath bannered slogans promising a future: "Grow with Us." "Step Into Tomorrow." "Be the Change."
Sarah circled toward a display for community apprenticeships. A volunteer waved her over with a gentle smile. Sarah nodded, stepping forward.
Mia turned away, moving behind the table and pulling a folded note from her pocket. Inside was her own list—organizations she'd researched, vetted, mapped to potential scholarships.
Sarah was now at the health tech table, scribbling a note on a pad labeled "Take One." She looked back once, scanning the room, but didn't meet Mia's eyes.
That, too, was a victory.
By the coffee urns, Mia sipped water and watched. Sarah approached a student-oriented nonprofit booth, chatting with a man holding a clipboard. Her brow furrowed at something he said.
Mia's stomach tightened.
Then Sarah nodded. She gestured toward her badge. The man scribbled something. Laughed. Sarah laughed back.
And just like that, Mia's knees nearly gave.
She turned sharply and faced the opposite wall, breathing deep.
Laughter. Sarah's laughter.
Uncoerced. Undirected.
Just her own.
When Mia finally turned around, Sarah was slipping another pamphlet into her tote. The fair was winding down. Booth attendants began packing banners and collecting leftover fliers.
Mia approached slowly.
Sarah glanced up and smiled—small, reserved, but real.
"I got a few things," she said, lifting the bag slightly.
Mia nodded, tone light. "Looks like you made the rounds."
Sarah shrugged. "Some of them were interesting." She paused. "One of them asked about volunteer work. I told them I'd done some help at the shelter."
"Good thinking."
They began walking toward the exit.
"I liked the one with the green logo," Sarah added. "They do stuff with nutrition and community gardens."
Mia's chest ached with quiet pride. "That's a great cause."
As they reached the foyer, Sarah slowed.
"Do I keep this?" she asked, gesturing at her name tag.
"You can," Mia replied.
Sarah unpinned it and held it in her palm, staring down at the plastic surface.
"I don't know if I'm her," she murmured. "Lena."
"You don't have to be," Mia said. "But today, she helped open some doors."
Sarah nodded slowly.
They stepped outside into the late afternoon air. It was cooler now, the sun already dipping toward the horizon.
Across the parking lot, a group of recruiters chatted beside their cars. Mia caught only fragments of conversation as they passed.
"…Winthrop girl?" one asked. "Thought she wasn't on the list."
Mia stopped.
She turned, subtly.
The speaker was a young man with a clipboard, mid-twenties, shirt still tucked. He was scanning a paper roster.
"Yeah," another replied. "That's the name I saw—Winthrop."
The name landed in Mia's chest like a strike.
Sarah hadn't said her real name. Mia was sure.
Which meant someone else had.
Or knew.
Mia's pulse thundered as she reached for her pocket.
The name tag was still there. Laminated. Unmistakable.
Lena Morris.
Her hand clenched around it.
Not tight enough to break it—
—but tight enough to remember.
She stood frozen for a second too long.
Then, deliberately, she placed a hand on Sarah's shoulder.
"Let's keep walking," she said softly.
Sarah looked at her with the smallest crease between her brows, but she didn't question. She adjusted her bag, nodded, and followed.
The two walked in silence for half a block before Mia dared to glance over her shoulder.
The clipboard guy was still talking. But his eyes weren't on them.
Still, a cold breath of unease slipped down Mia's spine.
Sarah broke the silence. "You okay?"
Mia forced a smile. "Yeah. Just a long day."
Sarah looked skeptical, but didn't press.
And that, too, was its own kind of grace.
As they turned the corner, the fair behind them melted into distance. The tote bag rustled at Sarah's side, the pamphlets inside crinkling with each step.
She looked down at the name tag still in her hand, running a finger along the edge.
"I didn't hate it," she said quietly.
Mia glanced at her. "The fair?"
"No. Being her. Lena. Just for a bit."
Mia said nothing for a moment. Then, gently: "That's allowed."
Sarah nodded. "I know."
They passed a row of trees shedding brittle brown leaves, the sidewalk lined with curled edges of late-season fall. One leaf broke loose and skittered ahead of them, carried by wind. Sarah kicked it lightly.
Mia slowed. "You want to stop somewhere? Get something warm?"
Sarah considered. "Maybe. Could we sit a while?"
Mia motioned toward a bench under a bare-limbed sycamore.
They sat.
Silence settled.
Sarah leaned back, looking at the pale sky fading from orange to blue.
"I think I could do it," she said after a long while.
"Do what?"
"Apply. For something real." She held up the pamphlet from the green logo booth. "They have a spring intake. Training program."
Mia turned to her, face open.
Sarah didn't meet her eyes, but she didn't shy away either.
"I don't know if I'll get in," she added. "But… I want to try."
Mia's throat tightened. "Then we'll try."
Sarah nodded, still staring straight ahead.
But Mia saw it—the flicker of resolve, quiet and fragile.
And enough.