She picked at the piercing and said, “I took a couple things I shouldn’t have. I was in a bad place.”

But they loved Common Dreams, which they saw as a social justice effort.

“That’s really what attracted me,” said Vince. “It’s not often you find a truly progressive initiative on the coast.”

“Common Dreams puts the human subject at the center of care,” Gwen said. “That’s a real step toward equity.”

“I’d love your article to spread the word about that,” said Vince. “It would be brave of you to write something positive about these communities, as opposed to the usual kill-kill-bang-bang.”

“We were talking about this on the way over,” Gwen said.

“We were talking about how the best outcome for a story like yours is for people to say, ‘Hey, maybe this is something we could do in our town.’ ”

“If I’m picturing my future life,” said Gwen, “I can’t think of anything better than trying to set up more Common Dreams across the country. I’d even transition into an administrative role, if that was possible.”

“Not me,” said Vince. “If I don’t get my hands dirty, it’s not a proper day in the trenches.”

I glanced at the tattoo on Gwen’s forearm, cursive letters that said live life laughingly.

We cruised into south-side Retreat, scattering a pack of strays in the road. The streets had the same barren tension as the Tomahawk, and in the shade you could see tents under tarps, sunburnt feet protruding. A woman emptied a bucket of waste into a sewer.

But there was one major difference. Here, a massive plot was being developed. Construction workers were erecting huge wooden frames for new houses that stretched almost all the way up to the tents. Fronting the site was a billboard advertising the development: THE GLADES.

“When I got here, this was all burnt-out houses,” Gwen told me. “It’s crazy how fast these new ones are going up. What was it, Vince—a month?—since they poured the foundations?”

“Feels like even less.”

“It’s hard to think they’ll hold up in a hurricane,” she muttered.

Suddenly Vince said, “Bastards,” and swerved the truck to the curb. We all got out.

As if sleeping at its master’s feet, a dog was curled up, the blood around it dried black. I thought it was a trick of the light, how the fur seemed to bristle with brown waves, before I realized it was ants pouring over the body. Vince nudged it over with a foot and you could see where the bullet had passed through, bright pink entrail poking out like a thumb.

“I swear to god, these guys,” said Vince.

“The construction workers shoot them,” Gwen told me.

“What makes you think it’s the workers? I hear everyone shoots them.”

“Nobody who lives down here would waste a bullet on a dog.”