CHAPTER 7 — Don't Write Down My Name

“You want our list?”

Leila stared at the man outside the relief center. He introduced himself as a member of the Valois Group legal team. His tie was immaculate. After glancing at the damaged shutter, he offered her a document.

“It's a request for cooperation on security grounds. If you provide information on your volunteers and food recipients, we'll supply the materials needed for repairs.”

“Why do you need their names?”

“To ensure no one involved in criminal activity is among them.”

“And how will you decide whether the old man who came for bread yesterday is a criminal?”

“There's no need to become emotional.”

“How thoughtful. You want to take other people's names, and you're worried about my feelings.”

The man pointed to the signature line.

“If you refuse, your center may be excluded from assistance.”

Leila folded the paper and handed it back.

“Then we'll find bread somewhere else.”

He left without another word. Samira was waiting against the wall.

“You realize you've just cost us another job opportunity?”

“I didn't make the decision about your job.”

“That almost makes me angrier.”

“Me too. But we can't hand over everyone's information just because someone demands it.”

Instead of answering, Samira began moving empty delivery crates. Their hands met at the corner of one box. Samira smiled first.

“Let's argue tonight. We've got work to do.”

A police car turned into the alley. Gabriel stepped out, and the volunteers fell silent.

Leila crossed her arms.

“Which list have the police come to collect?”

“I'm not asking for a list. I need statements about people who entered the warehouse at the time of the fire.”

“Without my lawyer?”

“You may give your statement in her presence.”

“Then that's what I'll do.”

He unfolded his notes.

“I've also confirmed that you argued with the company president at yesterday's event.”

“Is that a crime?”

“No. I wanted to know whether anyone threatened you afterward.”

That was not the question she'd expected. People had filmed her, but no one had assaulted her. Threats were still flooding in online.

“I've received threatening messages. I sent them to Adèle.”

“Were you told how to file a complaint?”

“Yes. I'll handle that.”

“Understood.”

He didn't press further. As he turned away, she called after him.

“Officer. The company wants our volunteers' names. Does the police force want them too?”

“Without lawful grounds, no one can compel you to hand them over voluntarily.”

“So I don't have to give them anything.”

“Check the specific circumstances with your lawyer. But conditions attached to private aid and a police request for evidence are not the same thing.”

“You could have explained that from the start.”

“At the start, I failed to check the facts properly myself.”

Leila looked him straight in the eye. It wasn't the apology she'd wanted. She wanted to know whether he'd admit the same failing outside this alley, too.

“If you decide I'm wrong, will you put that in writing?”

“If it's established, yes.”

“Good. Then write down that you didn't listen to me. That's already established.”

Gabriel wrote her words in his notebook.

She watched him go. The volunteers had stopped talking the instant he arrived. Did he even know what his presence did to them? The hand that had cuffed her was leaving without restraining anyone.

The line began moving again after he was gone. People asked why the police had come. Leila gave no one the volunteers' names. The work of turning neighbors against one another had already begun.

Among the people collecting food that day was a shopkeeper whose business had been looted during the fire. He demanded harsh penalties for the people responsible. Leila didn't argue. But when the refugee family beside him was pushed back simply for being refugees, she stepped in. Neither nationality nor an accusation determined anyone's place in the bread line.

A volunteer asked her not to fight loudly in front of those waiting. Leila accepted that too. In a city on edge, even how you stood up for something mattered. She counted the ration tickets again and calculated how far the remaining soup could be stretched. She still had to feed the people she'd promised to protect.

Late that afternoon, Adèle arrived with an old aid application form she'd found while tracing the company's sources of information.

“Leila, do you remember this?”

“Yes. We used it when we received our first food donation last year.”

“Who managed the residents' information collected then?”

“Our center and the supporting company. Just names and the amount of food needed.”

Adèle pointed to a box near the bottom.

“Here's the problem. It isn't clear how far their consent to reuse the information extended.”

Leila stared at the checkmark she'd made long ago.

Back then, she'd wanted even one more box of food to arrive.

She hadn't imagined that ticking a box could be used against someone. She sent the page to Adèle and went looking for the original consent forms. This time, she wouldn't stop at examining documents. She thought of the elderly man she brought bread to every week.

“I'll go and explain it to him first.”