Sunrise

“What’re they saying?” I asked.

“They claim Stockton attacked us because of you. They say you told them we had stockpiles of pork.”

“That’s . . .” my voice trailed off as I thought about it. What had I said on that icy road in front of Stockton last year? Before Darla and I started off to find my folks? I strained to remember. “Oh, f—”

“What is it?” Darla asked.

“I did tell them. When we were trying to buy medical care for Ed. The guy said he’d heard Warren had plenty of hogs, and I said yeah, thousands.”

“So you didn’t really tell them.”

“But I confirmed it.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“I don’t know. I need to think about it.”

“You mind keeping this under wraps until he decides?” Darla asked Nylce.

“Sure, whatever you need.”

“Thanks,” I said and gave her a hug before leaving.

After di

I’d been out there a good long while when Mom entered the greenhouse. “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re working too hard. You look like you’ve been beaten more than a threadbare rug.”

“Really, I’m okay. I’m thinking.”

“It’s Darla. She’s pushing you too hard.”

“She’s the one who keeps me sane, Mom.”

“Stay home tomorrow. Spend some time with Alyssa. Relax for once. We’ve hardly seen you all month.”

“I can’t. Maybe after the election.”

“Mayor Petty says Darla’s putting all this election nonsense in your head. You don’t have to do everything she tells you to, you know.”

“What’s with you and Darla anyway? Why don’t you ever talk to her? You talk about her enough.”

“I don’t—”

“You do! You complain about her to Uncle Paul, to Alyssa—even to Max! What’d she ever do to you?”

“Alex, I love you, and I only want what’s best for you.” “Darla is what’s best for me.”

“You haven’t been the same since you met her.”

“I haven’t been the same since Yellowstone erupted.” “That’s true. None of us have. But can’t you see? She’s just not right for you.”

“No. I can’t see that.” I noticed I had been scooping up handfuls of earth and clenching them in my fists. I forced myself to relax, the dirt flowing through my fingers. “Does this have anything to do with Dad?”

“What? No. How could you even say that?” Mom’s fists were clinched too.

“We all went to Iowa City. Darla came back. Dad didn’t.” “It’s got nothing to do with that. She’s too controlling. Always bossing you around—never giving you any space to relax.”

“She’s a lot like you, Mom.”

“I’m nothing like—”

“You are. Or were. Organized, tough, driven. She’s as passionate about farming as you were about being a principal. Or about protecting the girls in the Maquoketa FEMA camp. Maybe that’s one reason I love you both.”

“I . . . I don’t feel very tough. Not anymore. Not since . . .” “You’re still grieving for Dad. We all are. If Darla died, I’d never be the same. Take it easy on yourself.”

“That’s my point. She pushes you too hard. You need—” Darla pulled back the flap of plastic that served as the i

“Sorry.” Darla sounded anything but sorry. She stepped toward me, but Mom was between us. There wasn’t room to pass easily in the tiny aisle between the closely spaced rows of kale. “What were you talking about, anyway?”

Mom looked over her shoulder at Darla. “Oh, nothing. I was chatting with my son.” They stared at each other for a moment. Then Mom pushed past Darla, their shoulders brushing.

“What was that about?” Darla asked when Mom was gone.

“Mom’s losing it.” I tried to keep my tone light, but I could tell I wasn’t fooling Darla. “She thinks you’re putting too much pressure on me.”

“As if,” Darla said.

“Yeah, well. Her solution is to add some pressure of her own.”

“You okay?”

“I’m being squished between the two women I love most.”

“Eww,” Darla said.

“That didn’t come out right, sorry.”

“What’s it really about?” Darla asked.

“Dad. I think she can’t, or won’t, blame me for his death, so she blames you.”

Darla nodded slowly.

“It’s not fair. I decided to go to Iowa City—”

“I’m glad,” Darla said softly.

“And Dad decided on his own to come along. I’m to blame, or Dad, or better yet, the Dirty White Boys.”

“Yeah,” Darla said softly, “I blamed you for my mom’s death for a while. But you weren’t responsible for Target escaping from prison. You didn’t pull the trigger—he did. He was to blame. And you killed him.”

Darla choked back a sob, and I stood, wrapping her in my arms. Pretty soon I was crying too, crying for my dead father, for my estranged mother, for the whole disaster the world had become. Somehow it felt right to let it out there, in that greenhouse, our tears watering the kale that kept us alive. Only survivors are allowed the luxury of sadness.

Chapter 17

It was bitterly cold on the day of the election. By the time we reached Warren, the strip of exposed skin around my eyes was red and windburned. Darla chained Bikezilla to a streetlight in front of St. A

The sanctuary was lit by a dozen torches set into sconces in stone walls. Even though I was a half hour early, dozens of people were already there. Most of them clustered around Mayor Petty’s wheelchair at the back of the sanctuary. He wore a suit, tie, and elegant dark-gray coat. His coattails flopped straight down past the stumps of his legs, almost brushing the floor.

I hadn’t given any thought about what to wear. I was in my normal, everyday clothes, the same clothes I’d been working and campaigning in: long johns and jeans on the bottom; a T-shirt, over shirt, and sweater on top. Over that, I wore insulated overalls and a coat. I peeled my scarves and hat off my head, and Darla fussed with my hair.

Steve McCormick approached us, asking a question about where the wall would run in relation to his house, and quickly Darla and I were engulfed. Two competing knots of people formed at the back of the sanctuary: one swirling around Mayor Petty, one around me, like eyes in the gaping face of the church. The face was lopsided, though; there were always more people around Mayor Petty than me.

As the sanctuary filled, it warmed up. The torches and the body heat of hundreds of people were more than enough to overcome the draft from the constantly opening doors. I took off my coat and slung it over a pew.

Mayor Petty’s voice rose over the hubbub. “Shall we start?” People parted in front of him, and he rolled himself down the aisle toward the front of the sanctuary I followed him, mentally cursing myself—I should have suggested starting, taken the lead. There was a folding table holding a couple dozen pencils, a stack of tiny slips of paper, and the ballot box—a crude plywood cube with a padlock on its front.

Mayor Petty turned to face the crowd. Every seat in the church was filled, and the side aisles and back were full of those standing. It was the kind of crowd that would give a pastor ecstasy and a fire marshal apoplexy. “Here’s how this will work,” Mayor Petty said in his booming baritone. “We’ll have two short speeches, say, ten minutes each.” He looked at me, and I nodded. My hands were still trembling, so I jammed them into the pockets of my coveralls. “Then you’ll all form a single-file line, approach the ballot box one at a time, and vote. Write either Bob or Alex on your ballot. The votes will be counted immediately after they’re all cast, right here in public. Questions?” There were none. Petty went on, “We’ll flip for who speaks first. Dr. McCarthy, if you’ll do the honors?” I called heads, won, and elected to speak second.