45

One year later: Greg was walking near his East Burnside apartment with Gunnar, who was pushing along the bicycle Greg had scored for him. Gunnar had been in Portland for almost nine months. His hair was longer. He wore jeans and a hoodie. He had a studio in Greg’s building after living with Greg for two months, and he was working as a prep cook at a brewpub. He said he was thinking about going to Community College. He was going to see how well his mom did with it.

“I’m starving,” Gunnar said.

“Good deal, buddy. We’re doing that Pho place you like.”

Leeann Holt stood in their path, farther down the sidewalk. She had on a jacket and skirt and cute hat that made her look younger. Emily had given her some clothes and helped her find new outfits. Leeann had her own place, too—renting Greg’s room from Emily.

Greg and Gunnar walked up to her. “I thought you were going to meet us at the Pho place?” Greg said to her.

Leeann was holding back a grin, standing on tiptoes. “I couldn’t wait,” she said.

“Why? What?” Gunnar said.

“I passed all my classes. Every last one.”

Gunnar grinned. Leeann grabbed him and hugged him.

That evening, Greg was typing on his laptop, working on the introduction for the draft of his new book. The words onscreen read:

“The schism between city and country will never be a black-and-white issue. If someone tells you it is, don’t ever believe them. They might be trying to hoodwink you for their own ends. Starting over as Cascadia comes with baggage loaded down with past burdens. These must be dealt with for the new society to survive and prosper. Cascadia may never succeed if the urban and rural rupture is allowed to fester, to bleed. There are ways to stanch the wound, but the compromises required will demand real grit …”

His trip to find Donny Wilkie had made him realize that he had never included the more far-flung and opposite rural regions of Oregon in his vision for Cascadia simply because they did not fit. He wouldn’t have known how to fit them in. Their puzzle pieces were a shape all their own. His wasn’t a conscious decision but rather the result of subliminal process of elimination. We tell ourselves what we want to hear. As for the Pineburg area, it was on the border of that unknown, unwanted puzzle. Time would only tell if it would join Cascadia or choose an abyss. In his new book, he offered hard choices. Those regions in Southern and Eastern Oregon so unlike the bioregion of Cascadia could be left to join their own breakaway state, whether it was a new Jefferson State or something worse—a homeland that made a guy like Wayne Carver feel right at home. Whatever is was, it would always border Cascadia and could never be ignored in the future.

Greg also knew: The truth was, he was FBI Field Agent Rich Torres’ informant forever. Torres would always have a hold on him. They would. Because Greg could never really know what Torres knew about him and had on him, until it was probably too late. If anything ever came of Cascadia and it threatened the Feds’ interests, they could come to him, make him do what they wanted. Torres could even come acting on his own, the solo operator with leverage. Greg knew this was wild speculation, but it didn’t hurt to consider the scenarios. The dead had failed at less and the victors had succeeded at worse. If they ever did ever come for him, he was the best mole they could ever wish for: The true believer.

His doorbell rang.

He went to the front door, checked the peephole, and, shrugging, cracked open the door.

There stood a guy in his twenties in black garb. He had a tough look with a crooked jaw, but Greg wasn’t sure how much was for show. He looked familiar to Greg somehow.

“Can you let me in?” the guy said before Greg could get a word out.

“Who are you?” Greg said. “How did you get in the building?”

The guy turned to run.

“Wait,” Greg whispered—why he was whispering, he wasn’t sure. He had swung his door open wide. The guy turned back.

Minutes later, the two of them were sitting on Greg’s sofa in near darkness. The guy had asked Greg to keep his lights off. The guy’s name was Luke. Greg had a beer going. Luke had a water. At first Greg had thought this Luke was some kind of anarchist or street kid but he didn’t have the smell they often carried, like wet dogs that smoked. Though Luke had once been a street kid, he explained.

“That was, until your book changed my life,” Luke said.

“My book?”

“Yes, your book, sir. Rescuing Cascadia. You gave me a copy once, outside the Cascadia Congress last year.”

Now Greg did remember. This Luke and a girl had been coming to his talks. He had taken them for the usual street anarchists, never serious about anything except nothing. Now this Luke looked ten years older. “Thanks for reading it,” Greg said.

“I’ve done way more than read it,” Luke said. “Maybe you don’t want to believe this, but …”

“What? What is it?”

Luke beamed. “You? You are, to us, the father of the Cascadia movement.”

“Us?”

“That’s right, us. They are many more of us than you know about. And, we are ready. We are so freaking ready, man. There are more of us every day. We’re counting on your support, because the shit’s getting serious. It’s way past time to fight back, and hard.”

Greg could only stare. He moved to speak but nothing, truly nothing, could come out.