Sitting on the dais at the front of the council chambers, Mayor Derrick Montoya looked out at a room far more crowded than it should have been. In addition to Alice Deming, the annoying gadfly who was at every meeting, and the usual handful of people with specific business before the council, the seats were filled with shopowners from the old downtown, as well as an incongruous group of old ladies and young hippies from the preservation society. Derrick was not looking forward to this meeting. He was no dummy; his day job was lawyer, and he knew exactly why these people had shown up and what kind of trouble they could cause the town.

The mayor glanced over at his fellow councilmembers. Roy Freeman, as always, was on his phone, texting something to somebody. Lacy Rogers and Shelley Sue Porter, the two women on the council, were chatting cattily with their heads together. Al Moore, the oldest councilman, who Derrick was pretty sure suffered from Alzheimer’s, stared blankly out at the middle distance.

None of them knew what they were in for tonight.

But hell had no fury like a business owner who hadn’t been treated fairly.

Glancing up at the clock, Derrick waited four more minutes, until it was exactly seven, before calling the meeting to order. They all stood for the flag salute, Pastor Peters said a prayer, the council ran through some old business, spent about an hour on new agenda items, and then the floor was opened to the public.

The line of speakers that formed immediately after the announcement went straight down the center aisle and curved along the wall at the back of the chambers, emptying most of the seats in the room.

Here it comes, Derrick thought.

Trixie Johnson, owner of the consignment store next to the new bank, stepped up to the podium. “I have a question about the new bank in the old downtown.”

A noise emerged from the crowd, collective grunts of agreement that coalesced into a single expression of support.

“State your name and occupation for the record,” Derrick said, trying to maintain the illusion that he was in control.

“You know who I am, Derrick.”

“For the record.”

The woman sighed. “My name is Trixie Johnson. I’m the owner and operator of It’s New to You, and like most of the downtown business owners, I’d like to know how a bank became my new neighbor.”

A cheer went up from the crowd.

“I mean, they have to have a business license, don’t they? I want to know who approved this and when? Because I sure as hell didn’t hear anything about it. All of a sudden, I went to open my shop one morning and they were there.”

“Time,” said Lacy Rogers, who was responsible for making sure speakers did not go over their limit.

“I’m just getting started!”

Voices in support: “Yeah!” “Let her talk!”