That’s the troublemaker Harley beat up, Daddy had said, nodding toward the counter where a man was sitting down. I’d have thought him to have the sense to tuck tail and leave after a whipping like that. The man’s face was scabbed and bruised. Stitches stubbled a black crescent on his chin. So that’s Luke Miller, I’d thought, because I’d heard about him, not just from Daddy but other people such as Billy, who admired him. He seemed not to care that several people now glared at him, including my father. And that impressed me, his not giving a damn, not being afraid Harley or one of his cronies might be around.

When we finished eating I went to the bathroom while the rest of the family went on outside. As I passed the counter I stopped and told Luke how much I admired his attempts to protect the Tamassee. He’d replied brusquely, telling me admiration didn’t do a damn thing for the river, that if I wanted to do something that did matter I should come to the community center tomorrow at ten and help address envelopes.

Billy and a few other locals came that Saturday, as did some middle-aged and elderly people from as far away as Columbia and Atlanta. And of course the river rats, not wearing bright-colored river shorts and polypro shirts and Tevas as they would years later but cut-off jeans and tank tops and tennis shoes. The men wore their hair long and attempted beards with varying degrees of success. The women wore their hair long as well. They didn’t wear bras and, like the men, were tanned and muscled from long days paddling the river. Luke moved among us, distributing address lists, envelopes, and stamps.

They had all heard what had happened, but it was obvious a number of people inside the community center hadn’t seen Luke since Harley Winchester had beaten him up. They studied his battered face, the way his cracked rib made his breathing shallow and quick, like an animal panting. But what struck me was that, unlike my father, the people who’d gathered that Saturday morning weren’t surprised he was there. One of the river rats said aloud what Luke’s damaged body proved—that nothing short of being killed would keep Luke from trying to save the Tamassee.

I lifted my eyes from the computer screen. There was no reason to reply to Luke’s message. I hit the delete button and closed the program.

I WAS EATING THE GRANOLA BAR THAT WOULD BE MY LUNCH when Lee Gervais walked over, the front page in his hand. My photograph filled the bottom third right corner, the first six paragraphs of Allen’s story on the left. A father’s grief, the photo caption read. FATHER FIGHTS RIVER AND LAW TO BRING DAUGHTER HOME headlined the article.