Sitting in the back of his Range Rover, Atlas Jamison checked the car’s mobile phone again. No reception. He tapped the heavy receiver to see if it was broken. He’d gotten a call that the protest at the cutting site was getting out of hand, but the damn road was so twisty it was taking forever to get there. Now, as they neared the site, there was a slowdown. The police had orange cones out and were directing traffic to the left. The already narrow road was down to one lane, and they had stopped moving. Atlas tapped on the glass
“What’s the hold-up?” he asked the driver.
“Not sure, sir.”
Atlas glanced impatiently through the front windshield, seeing the bumper stickers on the battered car in front of him, “EPIC” and “InterTribal Sinkyone Wilderness Council.” He vaguely recognized the car
