Page 8 of Personal Disaster

“We have a guiding set of principles in this country. They’re not carved in stone. We’ve amended them many times. But as they stand, those are our guiding principles and it is against those that we need to measure…whatever you want to question. Policy, law, matters of common practice.”

“You’re a constitutionalist.” I’m surprised, although I don’t know why. It makes sense given the rest of the profile I’ve assembled on him. I was just so focused on him being a part of the resistance that it didn’t occur to me that he might also be a conservative.

He gives me an inscrutable look. “No, Ms. Lisowski. I’m a park ranger.”

“And do you believe, as a park ranger, you’re being asked to do anything unconstitutional rightnow?”

“Right now? In this moment? If anything, it’s quite the opposite.” He grins again. “As a representative of the government, I wouldn’t want to do anything to abridge the freedom of the press.”

That wasn’t what I’d just asked him, and he knows it. I’m also not impressed by his easy recital of a few words from the Constitution.

I amnot.

Definitely not aroused by the grin and the beard and the sharp-minded mountain man aesthetic.

“That’s a lot of fancy talk to obscure the fact you haven’t really answered the question.”

He nods, acknowledging my point. Then he points to the cabin. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”

No, I’m hot on a story. I’ll eat when it’s done. But then I remember his change of heart with regard to answering questions. We can meet in the middle. “Sure.”

He leads me inside, and I tuck my computer away, but I keep my recorder out thistime.

“I’ve got some sandwiches. Do you have any weird food things?”

I roll my eyes at the way he phrased it, but don’t allow him to goad me into reframing that. Big picture, Poppy. He’s talking to you again. “I’ll eat whatever.”

He pulls an insulated lunch bag from under his desk, and a big thermos. He has a mug out for himself already and he stalks to a cupboard on the wall, where he finds another one forme.

Ceramic coated metal, straight out of a lumberjack fantasy. “Can I take some pictures?”

“Knock yourselfout.”

I mostly take pictures of the lunch he spreads out for us, but I also make sure I get shots of his smart phone sitting on the edge of the desk, next to a wide ceramic bowl filled with National Park Service keychains. In the background, there’s a bulletin board covered in memos. They’re probably totally innocuous, but just in case…snapped.

“These two are roast beef, and those are tomato and cheese.” He points to a brown paper bag. “Chocolate chip cookies in there.”

“No red shiny apple?”

He grins. “Already had it for my snack this morning.”

I take a tomato sandwich and sit back, watching him as he digs in. “Do you usually eat lunch so late in the afternoon?”

“Sure. Sometimes.”

“How much longer is your workday?”

“A few more hours.”

“That’s vague.”

“You deserve the truth. Nobody said it had to be precise.” He says it straight, but then the corners of his mouth twitchup.

“Ooh, Ranger Boy made a funny.”

He lifts one shoulder. “Maybe. I…” He glances at a piece of paper on his desk. “One of the permits is until six, so I’ll want to check that site to make sure they’ve cleared out. I’ll be done after that.” He lifts his gaze to meet mine. “Why? Want to take me out for dinner?”

That’s an excellent idea. “Yes. But I should warn you, I’m on a tight budget, so it might be sandwiches again.”

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