Sullivan put an arm around Kia’s waist, holding her back for a moment.
“It’s beautiful,” Sullivan said. “I see what you want. I see how good it is.”
“And I see why we have to protect that.” Kia turned toward the woods that lined the parking lot and spread her arms. She wanted to say something about how it felt like the forest held them, but she couldn’t find the words, and the tursnickens wouldn’t deep-frythemselves. But if they survived the lawsuit and she got to run a food truck again, she’d be buying only free-range turkeys.
“Before you get to work,” Sullivan said. “I want to show you something.” Sullivan took out her phone and held it out shyly. “I still think social media is problematic, but you showed me you can reach a lot of people.”
The screen showed an Instagram profile with three posts and one reel. The profile picture featured a selfie of Sullivan. The handle was @servetheworldPDX. She clicked on the reel. Sullivan stood in her vegetable garden looking awkward like she’d never seen a cell phone camera before. She waited a beat before speaking.A lot of people feel like they can’t grow their own food because they don’t have space or time or they don’t know how, but there are a few simple vegetables you can start with.
The video went on longer than any social media post should, but it didn’t matter because Kia could have watched another hour of Sullivan outlining how to fertilize tomatoes with old banana peels. Sullivan looked dapper and outdoorsy. A couple of times she said,My wife is going to tease me about this, then held up a slug or some other hideous garden pest.
“This is beautiful,” Kia said.
“I’ll never be good at it like you are.”
“You’re passionate about this. Part of having a good channel is finding something you can talk about all day, every day. You know a ton. And you’re smokin’ hot, which never hurts on social media.”
Sullivan rolled her eyes.
“I want to teach people about organic slug control, not be smokin’ hot.”
Kia clicked on the last picture and stopped. Kia at her food truck. It must have been at the fair when they kissed in the LoveTunnel. The lights of her truck set off the dark sky. Kia was in the window, leaning out as she handed a plate of food to a customer. Her hair glowed. In the caption, Sullivan had writtenmy beautiful wife. The colors were cheerful and the picture captured nostalgia, like the photo was saying,This is going to be a long time ago someday, so appreciate it now. Kia raised up and placed a kiss on Sullivan’s lips. “This is brilliant. You have to do this.”
Later in the evening, Kia and Sullivan took the stage for their speech.
“Thank you all for coming today.” Sullivan held the mic close to her lips, and her voice resonated across the parking lot, soft despite the amplification, as though she had pitched it so as not to disturb the wildlife tucking itself in for the night. “I know that not everyone loves snakes.”
Kia gave a dramatic shiver to illustrate, and the crowd laughed.
“But I think everyone here appreciates how important it is to protect our environment. Behind me is the Bois. Mega Eats wants to build here.”
The man who’d explained call-and-response called out, “Savor local flavor.”
His compatriots answered, “Reject Mega Eats.”
“So often the default isbuild,” Sullivan went on. “Cut it down unless a bunch of obnoxious environmentalists tie themselves to the trees.”
Someone called out, “I’m an obnoxious environmentalist!”
“But what if we change it around? Let us be conservationists in the truest sense of the word. Let usconserve. Let the default be to save it for the next generation and the next and the next. There is a Mega Eats complex thirteen and a half miles from here. We can live without one here. Let us ask,Must we develop?rather than,Where can we develop?”
She was everything Kia had adored in school and more. Not just confident but dignified. Not just strong but strong despite her insecurities and vulnerabilities. Real strength wasn’t being fearless; it was walking forward into fear because you believed in your cause.
“Doesn’t this snake thing help you?” The Mega Eats woman had appeared out of nowhere. Beside her sat a golden retriever, blameless in the whole snake–Mega Eats conflict, its tongue lolling to the side. “You own a restaurant next to the Bois.”
“It does help me. And it hurts my wife. And that’s not fair,” Sullivan said.
“But we both believe that this is the right thing for Portland,” Kia added.
“Your wife.” The woman strolled closer to the stage. “Didn’t you get married a few weeks ago?” She turned to face the crowd, commanding their attention although not quite bold enough to walk onstage. “Kia Jackson and Alice Sullivan got married so she could take advantage of a legacy clause prioritizing existing legacy owners with the first right of purchase for the Bois.”
The crowd quieted.
“When that didn’t work, they invented the miniature Oregon tree snake. Has anyone even seen a miniature Oregon tree snake?”
“We haven’t because it’sendangered,” someone answered.
Near the front of the crowd, a little girl in a gunnysack dresslet go of her mother’s hand.
