Cress blinked. “I… that’s not relevant.”

Owen Brandano was born with a murmur, but not the one in his chest. That valve was fine. The murmur was in his name —a soft, persistent whisper that followed him from the cracked sidewalks of South Boston to the polished floors of the State House.

Miguel stared at the bills. “I can’t—”

Owen wanted the name to mean something else. He wanted it to mean justice .