Falling From Grace by Ann Eriksson

stopped in mid-step, stunned by the transformation. Eight tents, two tarps, and a second outdoor kitchen had sprouted up in my absence, the ground littered with stacks of boxes and equipment, people everywhere.
    Rainbow tripped over a log in her hurry to reach me. She scrambled to her feet, cheeks flushed, hair in her eyes. “Dr. Faye. They came, the tree-saver people came.”
    I went in search of Paul. Rainbow straggled behind, chattering non-stop. We found him with Mary and Cedar, staking down the fly on a large purple and white tent.
    â€œPaul, what the hell’s going on?” I demanded.
    A fleeting cloud of guilt crossed his face before he offered his most disarming smile. “They showed up an hour ago.”
    â€œAnd you said they could set up here?”
    â€œI didn’t have much choice,” he argued. “It’s a public park.”
    â€œDr. Pearson?” A head appeared in the door of the tent and a young man, dressed in a fleece vest, long-sleeved shirt, and cargo pants laden with multiple pockets crawled out. “You’re Dr. Pearson?” he stammered.
    â€œI’m her.” I groaned inside at the all-too-familiar reaction. “Is there a problem?”
    â€œNo, I wasn’t aware . . .” His voice trailed off and he struggled to his feet.
    â€œThat I was a dwarf?”
    â€œYes . . . I mean no. I didn’t expect . . .” His clean-shaven face flushed scarlet under his tan.
    â€œAnd you are?”
    â€œTerry. Sorry.” The man wiped his palms on the seat of his pants, crouched until eye level, and focused on the middle of my forehead. “Terry Seybold from AFC .” He held out his hand. “My apology for the intrusion. We weren’t aware you were here. Paul said you wouldn’t mind . . . considering the cause,” he added.
    I ignored his extended hand and glared at Paul, who grinned sheepishly and lifted Cedar from Mary’s arms.
    â€œI’m not sure why you’re here. I talked to Pacific Coast a few days ago and they assured me we have nothing to worry about.”
    â€œWe understand the company plans to cut the upper valley this summer and fall,” Terry said. “All of it.”
    â€œThey can’t,” I insisted. “He explained they were only taking out a few truckloads.”
    â€œCan’t they?” He riffled around in a box on the ground and pulled out a photocopied sheet of paper. “Here’s a copy of their licence to cut, issued last week.”
    I took the paper from him and tried to focus on the text, distracted by the thought of blue slashes of paint on my trees, my life coming apart like the interwoven strands of a severed climbing rope. One by one.
    â€¢ • •
    Paul spent a third night in my tent. He claimed he couldn’t find anyone else willing to accommodate Mary and her children.
    â€œOh?” I zipped my bag to my chin. The splat of raindrops on the tent fly promised another cold, wet night. “I’ll need to drive to Duncan tomorrow to call the PCF office. I’ll take them to the bus tomorrow. I can’t imagine she’ll want to stay under these conditions with those kids.”
    â€œI think she’s here for the duration.” Paul hesitated. “You don’t mind if I share your tent for a bit longer, do you?”
    â€œNo.” The blood rushed to my face and I was glad for the cover of darkness. “I don’t mind.” Stay as long as you want .
    â€œIt’s getting pretty exciting out here,” Paul said, cramming his jacket into a stuff sack to create a makeshift pillow.
    â€œExciting?” I snapped. “Aren’t you worried about our trees?”
    â€œOf course”—he wriggled into his bag—“but it’s fun to have more company.”
    â€œYou think it’s fun to get arrested?” I argued. “There are better solutions.”
    â€œLike trying to get PCF ’s