Allen pulled off on the roadside behind a Jaguar.

“That car looks out of place. You know who it belongs to?”

“Nobody I know,” I said. “Maybe some big-shot reporter. Definitely not a photographer.”

“I’d say more likely a newspaper owner,” Allen said, picking up the pocket tape recorder that lay beside my camera.

Inside, people already stood against the walls, but there were two empty chairs in the last row next to Billy.

“Saving those seats for somebody, Billy?” I asked.

“None other than your own lovely self,” he said, “and of course your companion.”

I stashed the Nikon and backpack under my chair, looked for Luke, and found him in the front row. His face was tan, as it was year-round, because no matter how cold or high the river, he ran it almost every day. He wore a flannel shirt, blue jeans, gray wool socks, and Tevas. Knowing Luke, the shirt was probably the same one he’d worn eight years earlier when we’d gathered in this same building.

From the beginning, I had known Luke was interested in me—from the way his eyes often found mine when he spoke to the whole group, the way he lingered by the table where I worked, how he began to come to Henson’s Store on Saturday nights and always seemed to end up talking to me more than anyone else there. Apparently his interest had been obvious to others as well. I’d look up and catch Daddy watching us, and he was never smiling.

One Sunday afternoon Luke came out to the house. Daddy got to the front door before I could, still wearing his dark pants and white dress shirt. He’d taken off his cuff links and rolled up the sleeves, revealing two forearms muscled by decades of lifting and hauling.

“Maggie asked to borrow this book so I thought I’d bring it over,” Luke said, holding out a copy of The Clearcutting of Paradise.

Daddy took the book from Luke’s hand and held it with his thumb and forefinger a few moments as if weighing it. “What do you reckon this book’s made of, son?”

Luke smiled slightly. “I get your point, Mr. Glenn. But there’s a difference between clearcutting and responsible timber harvesting.”

“I’ve been cutting pulpwood since I was twelve years old,” Daddy replied. “I don’t do it full-time like Harley, but there’s been lean times when pulpwood money was all that got the bills paid.”

“I respect that,” Luke said.

“No, you don’t,” Daddy said. “If you did you wouldn’t be trying to put people like Harley out of work.”

He handed the book back to Luke.

“Maggie don’t need to read this,” Daddy said.

I moved closer to the door, close enough that Luke could see me. But his eyes were on Daddy, not me.