Nathaniel wiped his fingers on the greasy rag and looked through the rear window of the sedan, where three cardboard boxes of children’s books and folded winter clothes were packed tight to the roof.

“He had no legal authority to clear worker housing without a ruling from a county magistrate,” Nathaniel said.

“Authority doesn’t mean much when your room key stops working at six at night, Mr.

Whitmore,” Martha said.

By six o’clock that evening, Nathaniel sat at his dark oak kitchen table in Strasburg with six weekly timecard sheets spread across the wood between his napkin and the sugar bowl.

Brenda Whitmore set two wide ceramic bowls of steaming vegetable barley soup on the table, tapped her glasses against her clipboard, and sat down across from him.