Phil spent a fitful night trying to sleep in the cramped cab of his pickup, with his sleeping bag draped around him. He was still feeling tense from his journey, and it was also chilly. Worried about wasting precious fuel, he didn’t start the engine to run the pickup’s heater. In the end, he got only about four hours of sleep. At first light, he stepped out of the cab and relieved his bladder.

As he continued west of Kamloops, it was obvious that he was in an Indian tribal region. The local Indians, called “Aboriginal,” “Indigenous First People,” or “First Nations Peoples” in British Columbia, were hardworking and fairly self-sufficient. But the same signs of neglect that characterized tribal housing in U.S. reservations were obvious here. Many houses had wrecked cars up on blocks in their front yards.

On an empty stretch of Highway 97, he spotted a GMC pickup abandoned by the side of the road. He backed up and stopped to look at it. The truck had obviously been stripped. An orange adhesive Royal Canadian Mountain Police (RCMP) MOTOR VEHICLE ACT DERELICT NOTICE sticker was on the windshield, with a July date, and two initialed updates in August and September. The pickup was missing its passenger-side door, tailgate, spare tire, and two wheels. The hood was raised. Phil walked over to it and leaned in to see that the radiator, fan, and water pump had also been stripped from the engine.

Walking around to the back of the truck, he saw that the license plate was still there, and that its inspection sticker was valid for another seven months. That sticker, he surmised, was what had kept the truck from being towed away, to date. He used his Leatherman tool and removed the screws from the license plates. Carrying the plates to his truck, he debated whether it would be safer for him to continue to travel with his Washington plates or to switch to the BC plates.

Just before reaching the town of Cache Creek, he pulled onto a quiet side road and switched the plates. He continued on, and then stopped at a Shell Canada gas station. His GPS travel planner told him that gas stations would be few and far between for the rest of his drive to the Bella Coola region. A large hand-painted sign declared: NO GAS—SORRY.

He pulled up to the pump and was greeted by an elderly First Nations man, who was wearing jeans and a stained Edmonton Oilers logo sweatshirt with frayed cuffs.

The man said, “We’re closed.”

“How about if I pay you in gold?”

“Nuggets? Some of them is fakes.”

“No, this.” He held up the half-ounce gold coin, tilting it intentionally to reflect the glint of the rising sun. He had it turned so that the Maple Leaf logo side of the coin faced the man.

The old man smiled and came over to examine the coin. He exclaimed in the Chinook jargon, “Skookum!” (This was one Chinook word that reached deep into the interior of Canada.)

Phil nodded and said, “I only need half a tank, but this is a half-ouncer, so that’s enough gold for at least a couple of fifty-five-gallon drums.”

“I’ll trade you that half tank, plus thirty-five gallons in cans.”

Phil shook his head, still smiling, and said, “A half a tank, plus thirty-five gallons in cans, plus ten silver quarters in change would make it square. Have you got any Caribous minted between 1952 and 1967—the eighty percent silver kind?”

The old man scratched his chin and said, “Yeah, but do you know what five-gallon cans—empty cans—are selling for these days? They’re plenty scarce. Right now I’d rather trade you more silver Caribous than I would gas cans.”

Phil grinned and said, “That’s my offer—I’m sticking to it.”

The old man laughed and said, “Okay. Huy-huy. You got yourself a trade.”

The odd assortment of gas cans fit in the bed of the pickup only after some gear was moved to the rear driver’s-side seat. There simply wasn’t room for one bin, so Phil unpacked it and wedged all of its contents into nooks and crannies both in the cab and in the bed of the pickup. As Phil did so, the old man noticeably ogled the ammo cans and gun cases but didn’t say anything about them.

Of the seven fuel cans, no two were alike. Some of the gas cans looked ancient, while others were fairly new plastic containers. One of them had the annoying CARB-compliant nozzle, which had been mandated in recent years, but the station owner assured him that none of them were “leakers.” In a separate transaction, by trading back one of the silver Canadian quarters, Phil got an assortment of nozzles so that he’d have one for each type of can.

Now confident that he’d have more than enough gas to get him to the ranch, Phil set off again. The old man waved good-bye with his right hand, while his left hand was thrust into his front pocket, clasping the gold coin.

8

CUP OF JOE

A mighty fortress is our God,

A bulwark never failing;

Our helper He amid the flood

Of mortal ills prevailing.

For still our ancient foe

Doth seek to work us woe;

His craft and power are great;

And armed with cruel hate,

On earth is not his equal.

Did we in our own strength confide,

Our striving would be losing,—

Were not the right man on our side,

The man of God’s own choosing.

Dost ask who that may be?

Christ Jesus, it is he,

Lord Sabaoth his name,

From age to age the same,

And He must win the battle.

—From the lyrics to “A Mighty Fortress is Our God” (a hymn written by Martin Luther, paraphrasing Psalm 46)

LaCroix Homestead, Kearneysville, West Virginia—Two Months Before the Crunch

Megan had put the boys down for an afternoon nap, which meant that they would spend forty-five minutes giggling and likely not sleep, but it was worth the effort if they did. It was Saturday and Malorie was busy doing side work fixing vehicles to earn some money for herself. She usually took clients by word of mouth only and arranged parts and consumable supplies during the week, giving her the opportunity to work nonstop on a Saturday when Megan was home.

Megan was moving some electric fencing in quiet reflection when she caught herself saying out loud to the curious sheep nearby, “I need to decide about Joshua.” She pounded in the grounding rod and set the charger on the fence before heading over to Malorie. She rarely disturbed her sister when she was working to earn money; Megan was well aware what Malorie had given up to come be with her. Megan grabbed two cold National Bohemian beers from the refrigerator on the back porch and headed out to the shop.

There exists a nexus of unspoken communication between sisters that is not understood outside of that relationship, a connection that meant not having to say anything before introducing a topic. Megan saw Malorie’s legs sticking out from underneath the F-250. She turned down the volume on the radio, touched the cold bottle to Malorie’s calf to get her attention, and said, “He’s a good guy and deserves my decisiveness.”

“I know that you don’t get personal over high-side e-mail, and it’s only been five months since you started having lunch together. Where does that leave you?”

“That’s just it, I don’t know. I’m very hesitant to have him come to Kearneysville to meet you and the boys—it’s a huge risk. What if the boys don’t like him, or what if they really do like him and then the relationship deteriorates between us? You know that I do all that I can to protect Leo and Jean, and if I bring Joshua across the boundary of my life to their lives it changes things.”

“I haven’t met him.” Malorie grabbed the right-side mirror to help herself up from the creeper. She wiped the sweat from her forehead, took a long swig from the bottle to counteract the August heat, and asked, “What would Papa say about him?”