Main Street was crowded, but not in the way it should be. There should have been men gathered around barbecues, grilling moose burgers and reindeer sausage and fresh clams, swapping fish tales, drinking beers. The women should have been by the diner, fussing over long tables set up with food—halibut sandwiches, platters of Dungeness crab, buckets of steamed clams, vats of baked beans.

Instead, half the townspeople stood on the boardwalk on the water side of town and the other half stood in front of the saloon. It was like some weird O.K. Corral showdown.

Then Leni saw the saloon.

Every window was broken, the door had been hacked to bits, left as sharp shards of wood hanging from brass hinges, and white spray-painted graffiti covered the burnt walls. THIS IS A WARNING. STAY AWAY. ARROGANT PRICK. NO PROGRESS.

Tom Walker stood in front of the ruined saloon, with Large Marge and Natalie standing to his left and Ms. Rhodes and her husband on his right. Leni recognized the rest of the people standing with him: most of the town’s merchants and fishermen and outfitters. These were the people who’d come to Alaska for something.

Across the street, on the boardwalk, stood the off-the-gridders; the outcasts, the loners. Folks who lived in the bush, with no access to their property except by sea or air and who had come here to get away from something—creditors, the government, the law, child support, modern life. Like her dad, they wanted Alaska to remain wild to her fingertips forever. If they had their way, there would never be electricity or tourists or telephones or paved roads or flush toilets.

Dad walked confidently forward. Leni and Mama rushed to keep up with him.

Tom Walker strode out to meet Dad in the middle of the street. He threw a can of spray paint onto the ground at Dad’s feet. It clanged in the dirt, rolled sideways. “You think I don’t know it was you? You think everyone doesn’t know it was you, you crazy asshole?”

Dad smiled. “Something happen last night, Tom? Vandalism? What a shame.”

Leni noticed how powerful Mr. Walker looked beside her father, how steady. Leni couldn’t imagine Tom Walker ever stumbling around drunk or talking to himself or waking up screaming and crying. “You’re worse than a coward, Allbright. You’re stupid. Sneaking around in the dark to break windows and spray-paint words on wood I’m going to tear down anyway.”

“He wouldn’t do that, Tom,” Mama said, taking care to keep her gaze downcast. She knew better than to look at Tom directly, especially not at a time like this. “He was home last night.”