Van Number 47

The engine in the alley idled for seven seconds after Pastor Elaine finished reading Mateo's card. Jessa counted because counting was safer than running. One, two, three, with Bree still on the stairwell and every volunteer in the basement listening to the same low growl through the kitchen door. "No one goes out alone," Pastor Elaine said. Bree laughed once, too short to be amusement. "You are all hearing delivery trucks now?" "We are hearing an engine," Nina said. She had her phone flat against her thigh, screen dark, thumb ready. "That's not private information." The engine revved, then rolled away. Jessa moved only when Pastor Elaine nodded. She went up the stairs with Nina and Gabe behind her, keeping Bree in front where no one could claim a volunteer had cornered her. The alley smelled of hot oil and wet cardboard. A pair of tire tracks shone through the dust beside the kitchen door, fresh enough that one edge still held a damp leaf upright. At the curb, the city loading-zone sign faced the streetlamp: fifteen minutes, commercial vehicles only, enforcement until six. The church clock over the side door read 5:18. Across the alley, the hardware store's roll-up door reflected the empty lane and the corner of the church kitchen entrance. Jessa did not touch the dust. She lifted her own phone and photographed the sign, the clock, the curb paint, and the empty square where a van had been. "That's not the number," Gabe said, disappointed. "No," Jessa said. "But it is the place and the time." Pastor Elaine stepped out with Mateo's sealed card tucked inside a manila envelope. "We do not chase a van." "We don't have to," Nina said. She pointed down the block. "Mercy Market's cart ramp faces a public loading zone too. If van 47 was support, it should show up where support was supposed to be." Bree had stopped two steps above the alley, one hand on the rail. The county-khaki sleeve from earlier was gone, but her face had the tight brightness she got before a post. "You are going to stalk contractors now?" Jessa looked at the loading sign instead of Bree's phone. "I'm going to look at public curb times and public route objects. If Mark has a better explanation, he can put it in writing." Mercy Market sat three blocks away, its cart still locked behind the county sedan and its green canvas cover pulled down like a closed eyelid. The senior tower delivery crowd had thinned, but Mrs. Alvarez remained inside the lobby with Denise, and two residents watched from behind the glass. The county sedan's hazard lights blinked in patient yellow. Mark Leland stood beside it with Tara Bell, both of them under the posted loading-zone clock. Jessa saw the mark before she saw Mark's face. Four rectangular wet patches on the pavement, each the size of a crate foot, led from the curb toward the cart ramp. Beside them, a torn corner of orange thermal paper had stuck to the drain grate. Nina crouched without touching it and photographed the paper through the grate bars. "Orange crate receipt stock," Nina said. "Same color family. Not claiming same receipt." "Thank you," Tara Bell said sharply. "Because claiming it would be reckless." Mark turned as if he had been expecting them and had rehearsed being tired. "Jessa, this is exactly why the emergency support request exists. You are moving from aid-recipient contact to contractor harassment." "Emergency support request," Jessa repeated. She held her voice low enough for the residents behind the glass to hear calm before they heard accusation. "Is that what you are calling HarvestLine van 47?" Tara's hand went to the tablet cover. Mark did not look at her, which told Jessa more than a look would have. "HarvestLine provides route stabilization support when there is a hold," Mark said. "A contractor vehicle near a pantry door is not evidence of misconduct. It is support." Pastor Elaine came up beside Jessa. "Support would have knocked." "Pastor, with respect, you are not the route authority." "With respect, Mark, I am the pantry door authority." The residents inside the lobby shifted closer. Denise opened the glass door only a hand's width. "If you are using my loading zone as part of a review, you may read the public board from out there. No names." Jessa nodded once. The Briar Glen exterior delivery board hung beside the ramp, weatherproof plastic over a dry-erase grid. It listed vendor, arrival window, dock status, and time changed. The line for Mercy Market still read hold pending review. Below it, someone had added contractor support vehicle observed at 3:31, no unload clearance. The handwriting was Denise's blocky lobby script. Mark saw Jessa reading. "That note does not authorize you to infer purpose." "It authorizes the time it was observed," Denise called through the gap. "I wrote it when the white van stopped at the curb and did not unload." Jessa felt the first real shape of the chapter's middle click into place, not a table, not a theory, but a van stopping where food did not move. "Was the side number visible?" Denise looked back into the lobby. Mrs. Alvarez said something Jessa could not hear. Denise nodded. "Mr. Holt says he saw a four and a seven. He will authorize that as a curb observation only." Tara's tablet woke. Mark lowered his voice. "Do not turn older residents into investigators." "You did that when you blocked their ramp," Jessa said. Nina touched Jessa's sleeve and pointed down the street. The Mercy Market mobile cart had a thin strip of reflective chrome along its locked side panel. In it, distorted but readable, the deli across the street showed its front window, and the front window displayed the security monitor mounted above the counter. The monitor cycled through exterior cameras for customers who parked in back. One small panel showed the alley behind the deli and the edge of the market's loading zone. "Public-facing monitor," Nina murmured. "Visible from the sidewalk." Jessa did not cross the curb. She stood where any pedestrian could stand and waited for the feed to cycle again. Mark followed her line of sight and moved too fast, stepping between her and the reflection. "This is absurd." "Then stand still," Pastor Elaine said. The feed changed. For two seconds, the monitor showed a white van backed to the Mercy Market curb at 3:06, the side number clear enough for the seven to catch the sun. A HarvestLine driver in a gray vest lifted orange-labeled crates from the cart's reserve stack, not into it. The Mercy Market canvas was still up, not locked. The county sedan was not there yet. The public clock in the deli window read 3:06. Jessa's breath came once, hard. "Before the hold." Nina's camera clicked. "Public window. Public monitor. Public clock. Crates visible, no client information." Mark's face changed by inches, the county face sliding into something smaller and angrier beneath it. "Those crates could have been reassigned under emergency support." "Before the emergency," Jessa said. Tara shut the tablet cover. "We need counsel on whether that image is usable." "You need counsel because it is usable," Pastor Elaine said. Bree's voice came from behind them, bright with the effort of arriving casual. "Are we doing sidewalk surveillance now? That's your new community care?" Jessa turned. Bree stood beside the county sedan, phone down but wrist angled. She had not come from the church direction. She had come from the side street that led to the brick apartment building over the closed pharmacy, the one with influencer plants in the second-floor windows and a rear service entrance marked deliveries after 2 p.m. A white HarvestLine van turned into that service lane while Bree was still smiling. Its rear quarter panel passed under the streetlamp. 47. The van did not stop at Mercy Market. It stopped at Bree Vale's building, and the driver climbed out carrying a flat orange crate folder under one arm.