Leni didn’t agree. She saw what her father’s vandalism had done, the effects of it on the people around her. A few painted words had become bullets hurtled into the heart of a town. Although the party last night on Main Street had raged as it always did, clattering on until daylight began at last to dim, she had seen how the townspeople divided themselves into teams, one that believed in change and growth and another that didn’t. When the party had finally ended, everyone had gone their separate ways.

Separate. In a town that used to be about being together.

*   *   *

ON SUNDAY NIGHT, Leni and her parents went to the Harlan compound for a barbecue dinner. Afterward, as usual, they built a big bonfire in the mud and stood around it, talking and drinking as evening fell around them, turning the people into violet silhouettes.

From her place on Thelma’s porch, rereading Matthew’s latest letter by lantern light, Leni could see the adults gathered near the flames. A jug that looked from here like a black wasp moved from hand to hand. She heard the men’s voices above the snapping, hissing flames, a din of rising anger.

“… take over our town…”

“… arrogant prick, think he owns us…”

“… next he’ll want to bring in electricity and television … turn us into Las Vegas.”

Headlights speared through the darkness. Dogs went crazy in the yard, barked and howled as a big white truck rumbled through the mud, parked with a splash.

Mr. Walker got out of his expensive new truck, strode confidently toward the bonfire, calm as you please, as if he belonged here.

Uh-oh.

Leni folded up her letter, jammed it in her pocket, and stepped down into the mud.

Dad’s face was orange in the firelight. His topknot had fallen, now lay in a lump of hair behind his left ear. “Looks like someone is lost,” he said, his voice pulled out of shape by booze. “You don’t belong here, Walker.”

“Says the cheechako,” Mr. Walker said. His broad smile took some of the sting out of the insult. Or maybe it added to it; Leni wasn’t sure.

“I’ve been here four years,” Dad said, his mouth flattening until his lips almost disappeared.

“That long, huh?” Mr. Walker said, crossing his big arms across his chest. “I got boots that have covered more ground in Alaska than you have.”

“Now, look—”

“Down, boy,” Mr. Walker said, grinning, although the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not here to talk to you. I’m here to talk to them.” He lifted his chin to indicate Clyde and Donna and Thelma and Ted. “I’ve known them all of my life. Hell, I taught Clyde how to hunt duck, remember, Clyde? And Thelma smacked me a good one for getting fresh when we were kids. I came to talk to my friends.”

Dad looked uncomfortable. Irritated.