She gave me the address of the elementary school and excused herself to get ready.

Forty-five minutes later, I sat on a folding chair near the back of a classroom, waiting for the meeting to start. Based on the painted handprints and stick-figure drawings covering the walls, and the scent of peanut butter sandwiches and smelly feet, I’d guess it was kindergarten or first grade.

I observed with interest as others entered the room, and my excitement grew as it exceeded 50 percent capacity. Maybe a boisterous argument would break out over something juicy, like feuding businesses fighting over property lines—that was always big in the movies.

Best-case scenario, someone would finally raise the topic of The Hollows. The construction noise, perhaps? An urban eyesore in a rural setting? An opposition to city folks? Guilt jabbed at me for my continual desire to find an angle directly opposed to Finn’s goals, but I was a journalist first and Finn’s temporary lover second. Sorry, Finn.

Lorraine, who’d traded in her tracksuit for dress pants and a sweater, arrived with a binder tucked under her arm. She was joined by a slightly younger man. They sat at a table in the front of the room, facing the crowd. Lorraine called the meeting to order and gestured at someone in the front row about taking minutes. It was a familiar scene, if only through my television screen, where I’d watched Taylor and Miss Patty preside over numerous town meetings on Gilmore Girls.

“The first item on the agenda,” Lorraine said into the microphone, and recoiled as it screeched with feedback. She tapped it a few times. “Let’s try this again. The first item on the agenda is the new zoning laws going into effect next month.”

Twenty minutes in, I was barely staying awake. I did a sweep of the room and saw shoulders were slumped. Eyes were remaining shut for periods of time shorter than naps but too long to qualify as blinks. Was that drool on the guy next to me? Validated, I uttered a quiet, “Not just me.”

“Now we’ll open the floor to new business,” Lorraine said.

A thirtysomething woman in the row in front of mine stood. “What’s with the school supplying only healthy meals? Why is everything peanut-free, gluten-free, dairy-free? What’s so wrong with old-fashioned frozen pizza and hot dogs? They were good enough for us. They’re good enough for our kids!”

Lorraine sighed. “If you recall, we had the reverse conversation last year when parents complained about the lack of gluten-free and vegetarian options in the cafeteria.”

“I recall.” The woman sat back down and, dropping her voice half an octave, muttered, “My sister and smug brother-in-law ruined everything for my kids so theirs could eat quinoa for lunch. They’re so extra.”

“You can file a petition online to request more unhealthy alternatives,” Lorraine said with barely restrained annoyance.