the president had ordered the demolition of a bridge whose ownership was now central to litigation. Darlene called the questions distractions. The room, Kent told me, was no longer willing to be distracted.
Lyle came over that evening with a six-pack and listened while I explained the records. He whistled when I reached the missing county conveyance. "You own the road they assumed they owned."
"I own the ground shown on the deeds," I corrected him. "The extent of their rights to use it is the question."
"You know, Garrett, that doesn't sound nearly as satisfying."
"It's also the truth."
We sat on the porch until the light went blue over the trees. I could see the ruin of the bridge from where we sat, the jagged outline of one parapet catching the final light. Lyle asked whether I was enjoying any of it. I told him I enjoyed being able to do something after standing helpless beside the creek. That wasn't the same as wanting eighty-five families frightened. He listened without interrupting, then said the only sensible thing anyone had said to me in weeks: "Make sure winning doesn't leave you as lonely as losing did."
The following Saturday, my kitchen became something between a planning office and a family intervention. Mitch arrived with legal pads, Lyle with doughnuts, and Brianna with a folder of environmental regulations. Rosalie brought copies of publicly available planning documents and warned us that she could explain procedures but would not