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suffering fully in vain. Randy walked on in, just as if he had a right to be there, and he did anyway, the place was a public restaurant.
    This was where the farmers of Marker often found themselves early on a Saturday morning, and if Joe Esterhouse wasn’t a farmer, no one was. Joe saw him right away, so there was no sense for Randy acting like he was there for any reason but to talk to him.
    He strolled over to Joe’s table and put himself in an empty chair. Joe was finishing a conversation, and Randy had a moment to consider that he was probably the youngest person in the room, maybe by ten or fifteen years. Some of the farmers might have been older than the tablecloth in front of him.
    “Good morning.” The waitress was about his age. He gave her as big a smile as he could with his cheeks frozen solid.
    “I’ll just have eggs over easy, and coffee.”
    “Regular or decaf?”
    “Honey, just look at me.”
    She did. “I’ve seen worse.”
    Joe was watching him. He would be understanding that this was serious, that Randy was showing respect by coming out here at this time of the morning.
    “Morning,” Randy said. “I want to talk a minute.”
    And Joe might just feel obliged to give him an answer.
    “Go ahead.”
    Randy lowered his voice a bit. “This road we talked about Monday night. Gold River Highway.”
    Joe was just still, a weathered granite statue, watching him. A person would never think he was eighty, not even seventy, but he could also have been as old as the mountains.
    “It’s not very likely to happen, now, is it?” Randy said.
    “You’ve had some folks asking?”
    “I wouldn’t say they were asking anything. I’d say they were expressing their opinions, which they held very strongly.”
    “I expect they did.” Joe’s voice was about as rough and hard as anything else about him. His white hair cut short made him look like the marine he’d been sixty years ago.
    “So,” Randy said, “I’d like to set their minds at ease, and it would be a big help if I could tell them that you didn’t think we’d ever get that money.”
    Joe was taking his time to answer, and the look in his eye was that he was deciding how much to say. Randy waited.
    “We’ll get the money. You might as well count on it.”
    “Now, why in the world would they give it to us? There must be hundreds of other projects, and no reason at all that we should get picked over them.”
    But Joe wasn’t going to argue. “Then I guess we’ll wait and see.”
    Randy had not driven through the blizzard to argue, either, but to humbly supplicate, and he did so now.
    “If you think we’ll be approved, then I’ll believe you, even if it doesn’t seem reasonable. But are you just sort of thinking it’s possible or are you really sure?”
    Joe Esterhouse turned to stare through the foggy window at the dark outside, like he did a lot of looking into dark black places. The glass shook back at him from the cold wind against it trying to get in.
    “We’ll get the money. Sure as the sun’ll rise.”

February
    February 6, Monday
    Wade checked his watch. Three, two, one—bang went Joe’s gavel.
    “Come to order.” The geezer was looking a little better this time. Last month the guy looked about ready to croak. Now he was just grouchy like usual. “Go ahead, Patsy,” Joe said.
    Wade checked out the audience.
    Five chairs were filled in the front row, side by side, and the natives were looking restless. Somebody had something on their mind.
    “Everyone’s present, Joe,” Patsy said.
    For once, the newspaper guy wasn’t asleep. Luke Goddard. He wrote the entire paper, three times a week. Wade read it none times a week.
    “Thank you, Patsy. Jefferson County North Carolina Board of Supervisors is now in session. Motion to accept last month’s minutes?” Someday he’d have to jump in and second before Randy could. That might even make it into the news. “Motion and second,” Joe said. “Any discussion? Go ahead,