“It is unconstitutional,” I said. “I’ve thought about that.”

“How?” she said, smiling. She was challenging me.

“Freedom of assembly. I think there’s something implicit in the First Amendment that says we can assemble where we want.”

“Objection,” Mom said. “We still have the freedom to assemble. We can all go to the roadblock and protest. I don’t think they’ll shoot us.”

“How come no one has protested, then?” I countered. “Is it because everyone’s afraid of what will happen?”

She shrugged. “Maybe because this town looks better than it has for years? We’re all happy to be home. Think about our office. I was expecting it to be trashed and for looters to have taken all the ketamine.”

Ketamine was an animal tranquilizer that some folks use as a party drug. Mom kept her stock in a padlocked cabinet. When we had returned to the office, it was untouched.

“I swear,” I said, “if they don’t get cell phones working again soon, I’ll go stand in front of a tank.”

“Well, you’re right,” Mom said. “It’s not constitutional as per the Privileges and Immunities Clause.”

“How do you know that?”

“There’s this lawyer who hangs out at the Savannah Grill.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve been leaving every night to carry on with some lawyer at a bar.”

“All right, I won’t tell you,” she said with a wink.

“Who?” I asked.

“Bud Winkle.”

“Bud Winkle? You’re dating Bud Winkle?”

“Shhh!” she hissed. “For heaven’s sake.”

“The Bud Winkle?”

“Cut it out, Maggie. And anyway, we’re not dating.”

“Have you kissed him?”

“Don’t cross-examine me, Maggie.”

“Oh, no, that’s Bud Winkle’s job.”

Jesus. Bud Winkle.

“He’s a very nice man, and you may find that his legal knowledge comes in handy regarding your concerns.”

“‘Regarding my concerns.’ Great. Right now my main concern is that my mom is fooling around with Bud Effing Winkle.”

We sat in silence for a few moments, and Mom arched her neck, looking toward the kitchen, hoping she’d be conversationally rescued by the arrival of our food. D’Arcy was behind the counter, chatting with the older woman at the cash register, not looking at the steaming plates sitting under the pass-through hot lamps.

“Our food is right there,” Mom said.

“Maybe Bud Winkle can sue them for bad service,” I said.

“Would you cut it out?” she asked. She looked on the verge of tears. Okay, I’d back off. For now.

“Anyway,” I said, “the point is why would we be cut off from the rest of the world if everything here is fine? Couldn’t we at least get cable? Shutting down the internet conforms to a certain fascist agenda, but how about intoxicating the masses with access to Netflix? Why can’t I watch reruns of The West Wing?”

“Rachel’s husband has a ham radio, and he shares the news that way.”

“Right—with other nutjobs spreading conspiracies from their underground bunkers.” I took another sip of my coffee, which had cooled considerably. This was not a pleasurable drink. In one of his emails at camp, Jordan said that when we returned to town, he’d make me coffee in a Chemex, whatever that was. “I mean, Mount Hope isn’t even big enough to merit a Starbucks. Why would we be worth cutting off?”