Ruth watched the pages accumulate on the table. "You ought to have someone from the county deliver those," she said. "People are angry enough that I don't want you knocking on their doors alone."
"I left a message for the duty officer. I cannot wait all night for a callback before telling people not to drink the water."
"Then at least let me drive," she replied. "You already look like you haven't slept in a week."
I refused at first, partly because I thought I could spare her the hostility and partly because I was still foolish enough to believe responsibility meant carrying everything alone. Ruth took the truck keys from my hand and put them beside her purse. We divided Cedar Hollow into streets, made a checklist, and loaded the notices into boxes where the ink would not smear. She drove while I delivered, so we could finish before dawn.
The first cul-de-sac was almost dark. Motion lights snapped on as I approached doors, turning every driveway into a small stage. A dog on Sycamore began barking and continued long after we had crossed the street. At one house, a man watched me through a narrow gap in the curtains and never opened the door; I secured the notice to the handle and moved on.
The Hendersons were awake. Mr. Henderson came outside in a bathrobe, holding my notice in one hand and his phone in the other. His wife stood behind him with a glass of water that looked faintly cloudy even under the porch light. "Is this you?" he demanded. "Is this the thing you did?"
"This is the contamination concern I found," I said. "Please do not drink that glass. We need laboratory results before anyone can decide what is safe."
"Diane says you've been threatening to shut us off for months."
"I have demanded payment for water delivered," I answered. "I have not threatened to put bad water into a family's house. There is a difference."
He studied me for a few seconds, then shut the door without another word. Ruth waited in the truck and did not ask what he had said. When I climbed in, she reached across and touched my hand once. It was the sort of quiet support she gave when she knew conversation would only make me more tired.
At another house, a young father opened the door holding an infant against his shoulder. He asked whether he could boil water for formula, and I told him not to use tap water for that purpose until the official notice changed. He looked toward his dark kitchen and said he had only two bottles left from a grocery trip. I wrote his address on the back of our checklist, promised to bring him water, and made myself keep moving.