“Welcome back,” he called out when he saw me, his face lit by a smile that looked genuine enough.

“We need to talk.” I pulled him aside. When we were out of earshot of the work crew, I said, “Why’s Deke got orders not to let me into the food supply?”

“We’ve got fifty-six hungry people here. Eighty-six now that you folks are back. It only seemed sensible to post a—”

“I’m not debating the need for a guard. What I want to know is why he was given specific orders not to let me into the food stores.”

“Just a misunderstanding,” Evans said smoothly. “I’ll get it straightened out. Your uncle got sicker right after you left. Someone had to step in. And the refugees look up to me—I fed a lot of them, or at least their children, in the camp in Galena.”

I didn’t buy the misunderstanding explanation. “How’d you wind up as a refugee anyway? Last time I saw you, you were in tight with Black Lake.” To be fair to Evans, I supposed he had no choice but to kiss up to the FEMA subcontractors who ran Camp Galena; they wouldn’t have allowed him to help feed the refugees otherwise.

“Not as tight as you thought, I guess. I used all my resources acquiring food for the refugees’ children. I had hoped FEMA would see that I got home. But when Black Lake pulled up stakes and abandoned the Galena camp, they left me behind. I’m just as homeless as you are.”

I was suddenly furious. “I am not homeless. This is my home.” I whirled and stalked away. I was afraid I would punch him the next time he opened his mouth.

I went to find Ben. He, Max, and Alyssa were loading up a Bikezilla with empty jugs, preparing to haul water from the farmhouse well almost a mile away. I hopped on the fourth bike seat and rode there with them. We really needed to dig a well closer to the longhouse.

As we filled and loaded the jugs, I told them about my conversations with Deke and Director Evans.

“Evans has been running things since your uncle got sick,” Alyssa said. “I figured it was okay, just a temporary thing until you got back, or I would have complained or something.”

“Sometimes,” Ben said, “a fast counterattack can accomplish more than a slower, more careful approach to the enemy”

“You can’t, like, shoot Evans,” Max said to Ben.

“You misunderstand me,” Ben said. “I’m talking about a political counterattack. Although really, war is a continuation of politics by another means, as von Clausewitz wrote.”

“That makes sense.” I thought about it all the way back to Speranta. By the time we had finished emptying all the water jugs into one of the greenhouse tanks, I knew what to do. “Thanks, Ben,” I said as I handed him the two empties I held.

“You are welcome,” Ben called as he and the others set off to make another trip to the well. I went to the long-house—I planned to spend the rest of the afternoon preparing my counterattack.

I dragged load after load of supplies in from the Bikezillas. After a couple of trips, Anna and Charlotte showed up. Charlotte had her eight-year-old sister, Wyn, in tow. Their eyes were dark and their cheeks tear-streaked. They’d lost their mother while I was gone. I hadn’t seen their father, Zik, since I’d returned. I gave each of them a hug, telling them how sorry I was but knowing how utterly futile and inadequate my words were.

“Heard you could use some help,” Anna said. She leaned in toward me and whispered, “I think they could use a distraction right now.”

“Thanks.” I was happy to have the help. I pointed out a row of plastic pots and sprouting trays I had brought in from the Bikezillas. “Fill all those with the best dirt you can find, would you?”

We worked all afternoon, filling pots and laying out seeds until nearly every counter and table in the long-house was full. Director Evans stopped by and asked me what I was doing. “Getting ready to plant the seeds we found in Rockford,” I told him. I didn’t want to give him any hint of the counterattack before it hit him.

“A fine idea,” he said. “How can I help?”

“We’ve got it, thanks.”

At twilight Max, Ben, and Alyssa came to help. The only seeds we didn’t lay out, ready to plant, were kale seeds.

When everyone filed in for dinner, they found the potting supplies. I raised my voice enough to be heard over the hubbub. “Before dinner tonight, I’d like to share part of the bounty we found in Rockford with all of you. Take a few pots or sprouting trays—however many you’d like to care for. Plant whatever seeds you wish. There are hundreds of choices laid out on the tables in front of you, almost anything you want—except kale.” A few people laughed. “I kept all the kale for myself.” More people laughed. If there was one thing I was sure of, it was that we were all thoroughly sick of kale.

“Keep your pots in the longhouse or one of the greenhouses and care for your seedlings. Whatever sprouts will form the core of your own garden, and every family will have their own plot of land in a greenhouse to raise their own vegetables.”

Director Evans started to say something, but I spoke over him. “And now, before we begin planting, could I ask Reverend Evans to say a blessing over these plants, to give thanks for the nourishment they will provide?”

“A fine idea,” Evans said and began his blessing.

We spent almost an hour planting. People chatted over the various seeds, oohing and aahing over the pictures on the seed packages, trading seeds until every pot we had was planted. Then we cleared off the tables and sat down to a meager dinner of roasted kale and tortillas made from greenhouse-grown wheat.

After dinner I rose and banged on my water glass with a spoon. Years ago I had seen someone do that in a movie about a wedding. It worked—everyone quieted down and looked my way. I was nervous—not about confronting Evans, though, but about the next topic on my agenda.

“First,” I said, “I’d like to offer my thanks to Jim Evans for his service to Speranta in my absence. When my uncle got sick, Jim stepped in and ably kept things running. We owe our continued supply of kale to him.” There were several groans at the mention of kale—exactly the effect I was hoping for. I led the audience in a round of polite applause. Evans rose and started to speak, but I interrupted him, smiling to soften my words. “Sit down, Jim, I’m not finished yet.”

“I also want to thank the original settlers of Speranta.” I named them all, starting with Darla and ending with myself. “Without your bravery and hard work, we wouldn’t have this fine building sheltering us or the electricity that warms and lights our greenhouses. And we wouldn’t have been able to lend a helping hand to our neighbors as they lay bleeding and dying on the highway outside Warren. Thank you.”

The applause was considerably more enthusiastic that time.

“I owe thanks also to the twenty-nine brave souls who volunteered to accompany me to Rockford. Without their bravery and sacrifice, we wouldn’t have all the seeds you just planted.” I had to quit for a moment, the applause was so loud. “They also found the supplies that will enable us to build more greenhouses to feed ourselves no matter how long this winter lasts!” More applause.

“When there were only twelve of us, we could operate by consensus. Now with the influx of new people and new talents, we need a more formal organizational system. It has been my honor and privilege to guide this settlement, to lead Speranta through its founding and naming, but I couldn’t have done it alone. I owe my success—in fact, we all owe our success—to Paul Halprin and Darla Edmunds, without whose engineering and mechanical genius, we would have no electric lights, no greenhouse, and no food.”

The crowd interrupted me again for more applause. “And we owe our very survival to Ben Fredericks, whose military genius led us to this spot, and who designed the long-house and sniper platform system that will keep us safe in the years to come.” The crowd applauded again. Ben was oblivious, leaning against a wall and sketching something on a notepad that I had picked up in Rockford for him.