Tamia gritted her teeth and pulled into the gravel parking area of the Happy Acres Apple Farm. That stupid accident in the pass had snarled up traffic, adding almost an hour to her trip from Seattle. She wheeled abruptly up to a line of cypress trees, parking her Toyota at the edge of the lot.

Tamia stepped out of the car and was instantly dazzled by sunlight. A cool, sweet-smelling breeze ruffled her hair as she looped her purse over her head and across her chest. She’d been so focused on traffic, she’d barely noticed the change from gloomy, cloudy Seattle to the sunny plains east of the Cascades. But there was no time for reveling in sunshine. She had less than half an hour before the governor was supposed to arrive. If she could get the apple trees to agree with her plan, they might be able to show the governor and everyone how much easier it would be to negotiate with trees than fight them.

She spotted signs for U-Pick and hurried toward them, annoyed to see a couple with two small children ahead of her. Tamia scanned the signs and fished out the right amount of cash, grumbling inwardly at the family for not just getting their apples at the store like normal people.

As soon as the parents and children toddled off with their baskets, Tamia stepped up to the window and thrust her money toward the middle-aged woman behind the counter. “One, please.”

The woman pushed up her glasses and smiled warmly. “Mornin’. All by yourself today? It’s a beautiful day, whyn’t you bring your friends?”

“They didn’t feel like it. One, please.” Tamia reminded herself not to look too impatient, since that seemed to make people move even slower.

“I understand,” said the woman, calmly taking the cash from Tamia. “Folks are a little skittish about trees nowadays. We haven’t had a bit of trouble with ours, though.” She stood a little taller. “I believe that’s why they picked Happy Acres for the governor’s visit. No one said as much, but I like to think so.”

Tamia raised her eyebrows. “No one here’s had any tree problems?”

The woman discreetly splayed the bills out in her palm to count them, then tucked them into the pocket of her Happy Acres apron. “No, not that I’ve heard of. But then, we all hand-pick out in these parts. Machines are efficient and all, but they’re always going to be rougher on a tree than a person. I kinda feel like if we’re gentle with ‘em, we can still get along with ‘em, even if they have—changed.”

Tamia hadn’t thought of that possibility. What if these trees hadn’t been affected yet? What if they couldn’t move or talk or understand what she was saying? So much for her grand plan. “So, are they changed?” she asked. “Have the owners gotten them tested?”

“Well, speaking as one of the owners,” said the woman, “no. We don’t need to know, really. Just keep doin’ right by ‘em, and they’ll do right by us, is our philosophy.” She handed Tamia a basket and a map. “I tell people if you’re gentle with the trees, you’ll be fine. But here,” she said, giving Tamia a whistle on a lanyard. “We got these special in case anyone has any concerns. Just give it a blow if you run into any problems—not that we expect you to,” she said with a smile. “Red Delicious are at their peak now, you might want to start with them.”

“Thanks,” said Tamia, hoping her blush wasn’t too apparent. She’d pegged the owner as a rank and file employee, and had come across as a paranoid city-dweller who needed a panic whistle. Great. She gave the woman a quick smile and headed out to the fields. After briefly consulting her map, she shoved the whistle into her bag and made her way toward the furthest grove from the counter.

Tamia strode quickly down the wide, rutted trails between plots. A fragrant gust of wind tossed the leaves, and the sun coaxed its rays into her, starting to undo the knots of anxiety in her chest. She didn’t have much time to establish contact and get the trees to buy into her plan, but maybe she should follow the lead of the unhurried woman at the counter. If the trees picked up on her anxiety, they might be on guard.

She worked her way to the far side of the orchard, amazed at the contrast between sagebrush and scrub growing alongside all these lush, green crops and orchards. And so sunny! It was beautiful, the perfect place to turn this conflict around—as long as she could get the trees to cooperate.

Tamia consulted her map again. This was the last plot. Red Delicious. She turned around to make sure she had some privacy, then threaded her way several rows into the field and took her translator out of her bag. These trees were tiny compared to the ones she’d been dealing with, and she had to cinch the belt in quite a bit for the machine to stay on the trunk.

“Hello?” she said quietly, making sure the volume was down.

“Mornin’.”

Tamia cocked her head. She was used to the trees greeting her by name. “Do you know who I am?”

“No. You from these parts?”

Her mouth hung open for a second. “Have you heard of Tamia Bennett? Or Barbara Block, or Richard Nystrom?”

“Block maybe. But politics not for us.”

Tamia pursed her lips. “Well, there’s a lot going on right now, so you might want to start paying attention.”

“Everything fine here.”

“Maybe it has been, but things are changing. Haven’t you heard about all the fighting? The fires?”

“Nothing change here. Farmers do right us, we do right them.”

Tamia shook her head. These trees sounded just like the woman who had raised them. Tamia thought back to the arguments the forest trees had made. “But don’t you want to be in charge of your own existence? As it is now, someone else decides where you’ll grow, how many of you there will be, and how big you’ll get. Then your fruit is taken away and you have no idea what happens to it. You never feel like you’re being taken advantage of here?”

“Give and take. Farmers care, protect us. Good for us.”

Tamia racked her brain. “But don’t you want to decide what’s best for your community?”

“This way best for community.”

This wasn’t at all what she had expected. These apple trees had no appetite for unrest. “You may feel this way,” she said, “but you have to know other trees feel differently. Do you really think you’ll be able to stay out of the conflict?”

“Community . . . content. No conflict here. Why change?”

“Maybe the choice won’t be yours to make,” said Tamia. “At some point the orchard ends. What are you going to do when trouble crosses your borders?”

“Safe here. Not want . . . get involved.”

“But—”

“Stop talk. You want apples, pick. But go to other trees. Bad talk make for bitter apples.”

“I’m sorry,” said Tamia.

The tree didn’t respond.

“I’ll leave you in peace,” said Tamia, unlatching the machine.

She walked out of the orchard feeling disappointed, and petty in her disappointment. She should be happy to see a sign of hope, an example of coexistence between man and tree. Instead, she was angry at the orchard for being so insular, condemning them for turning their backs on the rest of their kind—not that they had backs to turn. She had to stop thinking about them like people. For them, this wasn’t betrayal. It was survival. It was the natural way of things, give and take. These apple trees weren’t the ones who had disturbed the natural balance by trying to take too much.

By the time Tamia got back to the parking area, it had filled in with cars and trucks. Apple farmers from around the county were stepping out of their vehicles and heading up a grassy slope at the end of the lot. Reporters followed them, chatting them up and scribbling down notes as they climbed toward the tent set up for the press conference.

Tamia ducked her head and walked away from the commotion toward her car by the cypresses. She should have prepared an excuse in case Palmer saw her. The last thing she needed was for him to think she was tailing him instead of working on his recommendations—which is exactly what she was doing.

Dread yanked at her gut as she approached her car. So many vehicles had pulled into the lot while she’d been talking to the apple trees, there was barely enough room to open her door, much less wiggle her car out. Tamia looked dumbly at the tiny space. Another car door closed nearby, and she heard a voice say, “This way, Governor.”

Shit!

Tamia ducked down, crouch-walking across the gravel to the small gap between the front of her car and the row of cypresses. Footsteps crunched away from where she was hiding, and a few minutes later she heard a polite round of applause. By the time she heard opening remarks drift out of distant speakers, her legs had started to cramp up. She stood and peeked over her car. The parking lot was clear. After another round of applause, snippets of Palmer’s speech floated across the lot. She couldn’t hear every word, but she caught enough to recognize the typical phrases of concern and pledges to perform. At any rate, she was safe while he was on stage.

She sat down on the hood of her car and stared at the row of cypresses flanking the lot. Nothing to do now but sit and watch them wave in the breeze while she waited for the lot to clear.

What the—?

One of the cypresses stuck out a limb, beckoning to her like something out of Looney Tunes. She slid off the hood of her car and burrowed through dense, bushy fronds to attach the translator to the trunk.

“Hello, Tamia Bennett,” said the cypress.

“You know who I am?” she asked.

“Yes, most trees know.”

“The apple trees didn’t.”

“Apple trees . . . pretend much not know,” replied the cypress. “Want no . . . conflict.”

Tamia frowned. “I always thought you agreed on everything.”

“Most things. But human-make, human-care trees . . .” The cypress paused to sound out the next word: “do-mes-tica-ted trees have different ideas about community.”

“So you agree with the forest trees?” she asked. “You would help them?”

“Trees help trees,” said the cypress.

“I wish the apple trees felt that way. I wanted them to help me make a point to the governor—to everyone really. I thought they could provide a reminder of how much we need trees, and how we really need to work together with them.”

“What you ask?”

Tamia scoffed. “I didn’t even get that far. They basically told me I was in the tree equivalent of Switzerland and said I could take a hike with my plans.”

“What you want ask?”

“Well, at some point this morning, Palmer’s going to go out and tour around the grounds, look at the picking operation and the cranes and so on. Then he’ll pick an apple himself—photo op—and that’s when I’d have all the apple trees raise their branches out of reach, not allow any picking.”

“No more apple pick?” asked the tree.

“Not forever, just until people saw what it would be like if they didn’t try to make peace with the trees. Then, once that started to sink in, I would have the trees bend down and offer their fruit to everyone.”

“Tamia Bennett is now tree master?”

“No!” Tamia protested. “I’m not trying to be anyone’s master. I just want to help you negotiate. But it would only work if people saw that you recognized me.”

“We . . . recognize you, Tamia Bennet,” said the cypress. “You are important for us. Trusted one.”

A pleasant warmth spread through her chest. “You trust me?”

“Yes. We read your . . . signals.”

“My signals? You mean my volatiles?”

“Yes . . . vo-la-tiles. Every tree, human has chemicals. Yours say you are friend. Ally.”

Her heart swelled. “So, how can I help?”

“Speak for us,” answered the tree. “But not only you. Stronger with more. You work with other trusted one, Charlie Meninick.”

Tamia’s eyes brightened. “I’ve been looking for him! Where is he now?”

Applause erupted from the tented area in the distance, signaling the end of Governor Palmer’s remarks. Tamia listened closely to determine what was going on next. Sounded like Q & A.

“Palalla Cultural Center,” said the cypress. “Find him. Whole forest stronger than one tree.”

A buzz of voices rose from across the lot. Tamia looked up to see a trickle of people from the presentation hustling toward the parking area. Why is it ending so soon? She squinted at the growing crowd—was that Governor Palmer at the head? With a start, she dove back into the tangle of cypress branches. Panic made her fingers clumsy, and it took forever to unlatch the translator and slip it into her purse. She barely had enough time to crack open her door and squeeze into her car before the crowd hit the parking lot.

She faced straight ahead, away from the approaching throng of people, and waited. The stale smell of her old, dined-in, always-parked-out-in-the-rain car was more noticeable now, compared to the fresh, sweet air of the orchard. She stared at the wall of green in front of her, willing no one to see her.

The crunch of gravel under feet intensified as a garbled murmur of voices grew louder. Car doors opened and shut, engines started. Tamia twisted around in her seat to watch grim-faced people making an orderly, yet hurried exit. She rolled down her window as a couple approached the dusty blue Subaru next to her.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Flareups around Mt. Rainier,” said the young woman, opening up the Subaru’s passenger door.

“Flareups? You mean fire?”

“Yep.” The woman slid sideways into the car and shut the door.

Tamia’s stomach tightened. Mt. Rainier was about seventy miles to the west, back toward Seattle.

Someone tapped at her rear window. She craned her neck and looked back. It was Jackie, from Palmer’s Public Affairs office.

Busted! Tamia slipped out of her car. “What’s going on here?” she asked, hoping to preempt any questions Jackie might pose.

“We got a report the hotspots west of here are getting hotter. From Rainier north, all around the SeaTac area.”

Tamia put a hand over her mouth. Did her parents know? Where was her brother?

“Hey, don’t panic,” said Jackie. “We’ve got crews on call, and we’re getting the word out in the affected areas.” Her eyes flicked around to the trees bordering the parking lot. “Tamia, if there’s anything you recommend . . .”

Tamia shook her head, feeling useless.

“Well, come with us then,” said Jackie. “We’ve got a helicopter on the way for Palmer.”

Tamia was torn. If she took the helicopter, she’d be back home, but without a car—and without any further plans. But if she could find Charlie Meninick, she might have another chance to stop whatever action the trees were taking.

Tamia heard Governor Palmer’s voice and spotted him approaching. “Tamia, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

She nodded and braced herself for questions.

“You’ve heard what’s going on?” he asked. “Come back in the chopper with us. Jackie, let them know we’ll have another passenger.”

“Already on it,” she said, radio to her lips.

“I appreciate it, Governor,” said Tamia, “but I don’t think—”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t drive back to Olympia in these conditions.”

“Well, I’m actually up in Seattle now, since . . .” She looked down and cleared her throat. “Anyway, I still have some business down here at the moment. And my car.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll get your vehicle back to you later.” Palmer put a hand on her shoulder, lightly guiding her away from her Toyota. “Jackie, where’s the chopper picking us up?”

Jackie pointed. “In the northeast field, sir, five minutes’ walk.”

“That’s fine,” said Palmer, pressing Tamia’s shoulder more firmly.

Tamia planted her feet. “Sir, please, I have some things to take care of here.”

“I’m sure it can wait. Safety first, Tamia. By the way, what about those recommendations from Drs. Block and Nystrom?”

“I don’t know, sir, I’ll have to check.” A faint cracking sound reached Tamia’s ears.

“Helicopter’s on its way, Governor,” said Jackie. “We should head to the pick-up site.”

“You heard her,” said Palmer, clenching Tamia’s shoulder. “Time to go.”

Tamia winced. “Governor, please.”

The popping and rustling grew louder. Tamia wheeled around to face a phalanx of cypresses toppling toward the governor and his public affairs official. Palmer froze in a crouch while Jackie screamed and pulled on his arm. Tamia gulped in a deep breath, held her hands up to the trees and yelled, “Stop!”

And, with a long, loud creak, they did.

Palmer and Jackie stood slowly upright and stared at Tamia, still holding her hands up to the giants she’d stopped in mid-air. A trickle of green fronds fluttered to the ground as she lowered her arms.

“Thank you, Governor,” said Tamia, heading toward her car. “But I think I can help you more out here.” She climbed in, feeling like Wonder Woman, and started the engine.

The heroic soundtrack in her head stopped briefly while she pulled up the route to the Palalla Cultural Center, then started again with a flourish when she backed up and pulled out of the parking lot, spraying gravel to boot.

It was time to find Charlie Meninick.