Room 4

At two o'clock on Saturday, June 23, 2029, Room 4 was the brightest room in Edmonton.

Somebody had opened both windows, and the summer air came in with the smell of cut grass from the little park across the side street. The chairs were in a half circle, the way Frank had always arranged them, but there were fifty of them now, in three rows, the fire inspector's number exactly, and every one was taken. The two doors to the corridor stood open, and the corridor and the doorway of the multipurpose room across it were lined with people: the Thursday seniors, the youth program, Sasha's Wednesday study group with Teodora on new knees, half the staff of Aspen Gardens, two engineers from Northfield Components, a carpenter from the finishing crew who had raised the chalkboard by two centimetres and had asked if he could come.

The chalkboard was clean except for one line in Grace's handwriting: TODAY'S SPECIAL: A WEDDING.

And under it, the radiator, fourteen sections, cream and green and blue and orange, adorned with a small bunch of wildflowers in a jam jar on top, which Kai had picked that morning on his way from the bus.