At dawn, a sheet of paper on the notice wall had been replaced.
Yesterday's paper still hung there, but someone had peeled away a piece near the eastern corner and patched in a new sheet, paler than those around it.
The removed piece had left four straight edges. The new paper covered them, but the edges did not quite line up.
A new nail had been driven into the patched spot, its head hammered flush with the paper.
Two hammer blows, then silence.
A ladder leaned against the foot of the wall. No one stood on it, and wet mud clung to its feet.
A bucket of paste sat beside the ladder, a brush resting across its rim, its bristles still wet.
The patched corner listed the finals standings, unchanged, running straight down.
A separate line below addressed the matter concerning Sunagakure.
The wording was shorter than above, the sentences firmer.
Only below that came yesterday's lines.
Wall repairs, shelter construction, hauling materials-not a line had changed.
Plenty of people gathered to look. Few spoke.
Someone backed out of the crowd, and someone else filled the gap. The circle before the wall never broke.
Someone read the bottom line aloud. When they finished, no one around them answered.
An old man, supported by his grandson, nodded after each line he read.
When he reached the patched corner, he slowed down, then went back and read it again.
A reader stood before the wall, reading for those who could not read.
"The standings remain unchanged. Procedures from here on will follow what this notice says."
When the reading ended, the crowd drew back half a circle, then closed in again.
The paper was newly patched, the nail newly driven. What was read aloud differed little from yesterday's street rumors, but yesterday's