Full Measure: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

pedestrians would continue to walk long distances, or take substantial risks to cross. He mentioned Clair Michaels, the elderly woman seriously injured by a car two years prior on Main. The safety engineer turned and looked at the photograph of the boy. The room quieted.
    Patrick looked at the smiling boy in the picture, the gap where his front teeth would have soon been, the shirt collar buttoned all the way up. The safety engineer turned back to his mic and said the cost estimate was $84,000 per crosswalk, half paid by California DOT, another twenty thousand for each coming from the county. The annual operating cost would be small because on-site solar panels would power the small lights embedded in the asphalt. Mayor Anders said such a project would leave a $44,000 obligation to Fallbrook but the city had such money—barely—available from the general fund, earmarked for public health and safety. She looked at the councilpersons and noted that this sure seemed like a good use of that money. Public input?
    A middle-aged woman was against this because the only thing any pedestrian needed to do was go to the nearest crosswalk—anyone could say they were too far apart. Did they need a crosswalk at every single corner?
    A young man was in favor because he ran the streets of Fallbrook to stay in shape and the cars really were dangerous, especially at sunrise or sunset.
    An older woman said that public safety was one of the sacred responsibilities of government, and if Fallbrook had the money and a boy had already died, then why not?
    An older man said there were too many people in Fallbrook who didn’t have cars—the illegals, mostly—so building crosswalks would encourage more illegal immigration.
    An obese woman rose and said this was just another example of social engineering by Democrats.
    The young Magnus missionaries clapped and the woman turned and glared at them.
    From their seats in the audience, two girls stood and held up a banner attached to two broomsticks. The banner said WHO KILLED GEORGE? and Patrick heard a murmur of approval ripple through the room, then a chorus of derisive grumbles and scattered boos.
    “Friends of the dead boy,” said Boardman. “From down in the barrio where he lived.”
    A well-known art gallery owner spoke in favor of the lighted crosswalks: anything to increase foot traffic up and down Main is a good idea, she said. With a glance at the skinhead couple she added that even Tattoo You might benefit from easier customer access. The female called out something that Patrick couldn’t catch.
    The last person to weigh in said the whole boondoggle sounded like something the government would come up with, and he therefore stood opposed—it was expensive and unnecessary.
    The councilpersons and Mayor Anders gave their views and the motion was made, voted on, and defeated—three against, two in favor. The girls with the George banner stood and raised it on their way from the room.
    “Well,” said Anders, “that’s too bad. It really is. But on to other things. Fallbrook, let’s see how we can put you back together after this awful fire. We’ve lost three lives and three hundred homes and who knows how much livestock and farmland. We’ve got Fire Chief Bruck here to start things off…”
    Patrick looked at Iris again, still tapping on the notebook balanced across her knees. Her fine fair curls caught the light. He had no idea so much was going on in little Fallbrook while he was out patrolling Sangin District. He settled further into the folding chair, positioning his shoulder blades to miss the uprights. He felt a small relaxation finally coming over him. It was more than jarring to jet from a violent, foreign world into a present that was also his past and possibly his future. He thought again about reenlisting. Combat was better than a drug and he wanted more. In combat he had purpose. Everything was important and had to be done right. He knew that home was where he was