She wondered when they would leave. The protests she’d been to, mostly against the Iraq War, had definite start and end times. They had not interfered with meals or showering but had been more like exercise: a slow walk through the city with a large group of other people, some shouting, then back on the L train for home. It had been a good feeling, like after going to the gym—not that Marianne went to the gym—the feeling of having accomplished something that you may not have looked forward to but that now was over. Having said no, this is not right, I do not agree.

Even before this latest development, it had been some time since Marianne had agreed with the way things were going at the Ranch. She did not agree with the current status of Mark’s business arrangement with GWGW, which had somehow resulted in their paychecks being issued by GWGW itself, which Mark swore did not mean they were GWGW employees. Purely for tax purposes, he said. Tom had hit the roof when he saw the globe-cross logo on his first paycheck, but was mollified by the bonus that arrived a week later; Lorraine appreciated the upgrades to business class on her plane tickets. Marianne did not agree with Regina’s suggestions to move their curriculum online, did not agree with the “publishing seminars” she had arranged for this second session or the keynote speaker she had invited, at Regina’s request: a writer of “Christian erotica” (a genre about which Marianne would have preferred to remain ignorant). And she especially did not agree with Eric’s decision to accompany Regina Somers on a so-called business trip and not return when he said he would. No, she did not agree, it was not right, it was not fair, it was not how she had planned for things to go.

She wished she could join the protesters.

“I just want to say,” Marianne began, but no one even looked. She began again, in a voice loud enough to match their chanting: “I JUST WANT TO SAY that I am sorry you are so concerned about our associations, and I would be HAPPY TO TALK WITH YOU about them. Okay? SO WOULD YOU PLEASE TALK TO ME? FOR A SECOND?”

Most of Gulf Drive was shaded by craggy-limbed live oaks, but the area around the gas station was all blacktop and cement, and the heat felt as if all of the area’s sunlight had been concentrated into that one spot. “Take a water break, y’all,” said one of the women Marianne had spoken to earlier, and they gratefully headed for the cooler, which someone had dragged into a tight corner of shade.

The woman removed her visor, wiped back a band of sticky, flattened bangs, then replaced it. “Lena,” she said, offering her hand. “What is it you want to talk about?”