Page 47 of Fated, Allegedly

"Two dead from Marrow Creek and an out-of-state security detail that went into a flooded mine. That's what's there."

A pause. "Is that the whole answer?"

"It's the whole answer I can give you at midnight."

"Then I'll take it at midnight," Reeves says, "and I'll come back for the rest later, and Nash — she copied me. That woman copied a county sheriff on a federal transmission. I've had four calls since six and they all started with somebody asking who the hell Erin Lawson is."

Roy Harlow is arrested at a private terminal outside Albany, and I find out because Amelia calls Erin's borrowed handheld and shouts it across the yard.

They'd already flagged the aircraft. He hadn't run, exactly — he'd filed a flight plan and gone to the terminal in a suit and waited in the lounge with a coffee. Reeves, who talks to a man, gets us the rest over the next two days.

He didn't resist and he didn't ask for a lawyer for the first ninety minutes. What he did was talk. He explained the program. He explained the ninety-day dependency schedule as though he were walking a board through a rollout. And when they asked him about the eleven subjects in the appendix, he asked them, apparently with real curiosity, why nobody had ever thought to ask what those people would have chosen.

"He's not sorry," Erin says, when Reeves tells us.

"He's never going to be sorry. He built a thing to get inside a door that stayed shut to him." I look out at the water. "There's a version of him I could almost understand, and I don't want to meet it."

Hazel, on the porch behind us, says something short in the old language, and this time she translates it.

"A man who cannot be given a thing will eventually try to manufacture it. My grandmother said that about a different fool."

The reunions start on Wednesday and they take four days.

They bring the site-two people up in three vans with federal plates and a story about a labor-trafficking recovery, and my mother and Isla receive them at the Marrow Creek staging ground because no federal agency knows where to put twenty-six people who don't legally exist. Nine of them are from Bracken. Four are Loon River. Two are drowned-timber and have to be carried straight into water, and the noise the nine families make when those two go under the surface is a sound I'll carry to the end of my life.

Ruby Sennet's girl comes back on Friday. She's been in fur since we pulled her out of that cell, and Grace has been sitting with her every day and getting nothing, and then her mother arrives on a bus from a hospital in Deerlick and walks into the room and says her name once. She shifts inside four seconds. She's twenty-three and she can't stand up and she doesn't stop talking for an hour.

Erin holds the clipboard she has never once put down, and she is trying very hard to be professional about it, and she is failing completely.

"That's ninety-one," she says. "Ninety-one people accounted for out of a list that started at three hundred and forty."

"That's not a good ratio."

"No." She wipes her face with her sleeve. "But there was a version of this week where the number was zero and there was a hole, so I'll let myself have the ninety-one."

On Sunday the allied leaders come to the compound and do something the Stillwater Pack has never had done to it.

Loon River speaks first, standing, with his hat in his hands. Marrow Creek follows. Bracken sends the grandmother, because their Alpha didn't come out of the church at Redwater, and she says four sentences and they land like a dropped stone.

"You held a tunnel with our people behind you," she says. "You asked instead of ordering. You put a human at the table and she gave us the truth with no honey on it. Bracken recognizes Stillwater, and Bracken recognizes you."

Loon River adds the practical part, which is more than I expected from him. "There's a coalition now whether anybody wanted one or not. Four communities, one well. We meet twice a year and Stillwater holds the chair."

"I don't want the chair."

"That's precisely why you've got it," he says.

Owen is at the back with his arms folded and his eyes wet, and he doesn't come forward, and that restraint is the proudest thing my father has ever done for me.

I find Erin at four in the morning on Monday, out at the dock with her knees pulled up.

"You've been up all night."

"I've been up most nights." She shifts over to make room. "Sit. Carefully. Your mother says if you tear that shoulder again she'll let you handle it yourself."

I sit, carefully. The lake is like tinted glass. There's a break in the middle, a mile out where a chamber used to be, and the water above it has finally stopped turning.

"Before the sun comes up before somebody needs one of us," I tell her. "You had a road out of here five separate times. A truck with keys in it. A three-year post with your name on it. A federal transmission you could have sent from a motel in Deerlick and never come back."