I was supposed to write about the fundraiser and how we made a whole bunch of money and how perfect it was. However, I cannot stand idly by while Merrigan Ploughwell disparages and dismisses the very people the Downs is working so hard to help as “a problem.”

I ran the sandbag line at the Grange Hall through the whole wet season, and I know what it is to lose your stores and your floor and to wait on help that never comes up the road. When we were under water, the strip did not stand at the top of the lane asking whether we had brought it on ourselves. And when the capital finally noticed us, it sent a key and a ribbon and not one dry sack, so I gave the key back. I have not changed my mind since about what help is, or who it is for.

The ground on the strip did not turn because of the hands on the plough. Serpent-folk have farmed that land longer than any of us have been alive, and it fed this whole region for as long as anyone can remember. Soil does not sour to spite you. Something is wrong down south, the same wrongness that emptied Brindle Lake and drove the boars up to the townline, and I notice that is the part no one wants to say out loud. It is easier to blame the neighbour than to stare the problem in the face.

So yes, I called upon Grandma Windward to bring the beasts out to the green, and we passed the hat, and the Downs gave, because the Downs is a great deal kinder than one column makes it sound. Charity does not begin at your own gate, Merrigan. It begins wherever somebody is hungry. And if that has gone out of fashion, then whoever decided so is welcome to come and tell me to my face.