The "crowd" protesting the proposed development turned out to be about ten people holding up signs and chatting with one another. It looked more like a coffee klatch than a political gathering—until the news van showed up. Then the crowd started marching and chanting.
"Ah," Mutt said, "the power of the media." He pulled over to the side of the road and turned to Tully.
"Here's what they didn't teach you in college: Get into the middle of it. Wade in. If it looks like there's going to be a fight, I want you there, got it? Just keep asking questions, keep talking. And if I give you the sign, get the hell out of the shot."
Tully's heart was going a mile a minute as she followed his lead.
The protesters surged toward them. Everyone was talking at once, trying to make their point, elbowing each other out of their way.
Mutt shoved Tully, hard. She stumbled forward and came face to chest with a huge, burly guy with a Santa-like beard and a sign that read:JUST SAY NO TO RAMTHA.
"I'm Tallulah Hart from KCPO. What are you out here for today?"
"Get his name," Mutt yelled.
Tully winced.Shit.
The man said, "I'm Ben Nettleman. Me and my family's lived in Yelm for nearly eighty years. We don't want to see it turn into some supermarket for new age weirdos."
"They got California for that!" someone yelled.
"Tell me about the Yelm you know," Tully said.
"It's a quiet place, where people look out for each other. We start our day with prayer and mostly we don't care what our neighbors do . . . until they start building shit that don't belong and bringing crazies by the busloads."
"And you say crazies because—"
"They are! That lady channels some dead guy who says he lived in Atlantis."
"I can do an Indian accent, too. It don't make me Ramtha," someone yelled.
For the next twenty minutes, Tully did what she did best: she talked to people. Six or seven minutes in, she found her groove and remembered what she'd been taught. She listened and asked the follow-up questions she would have asked anyone on an ordinary day. She had no idea if they were the right questions or if she was always standing in the best place, but she did know that by her third interview, Mutt had stopped directing her and started letting her lead. And she knew that shefeltgood. People really opened up to her, sharing their feelings and concerns and fears.
"Okay, Tully," Mutt said behind her. "That's it. We're done."
The minute the camera was off, the crowd broke up.
"I did it," she whispered. It was all she could do not to actually jump up and down. "What a rush."
"You did good," Mutt said, giving her a smile that she'd never forget.
Mutt packed up his camera gear in record time and climbed into the van.
Tully was on an adrenaline high.
Then she saw the campground sign.
"Turn off here," she said, surprising herself.
"Why?" Mutt asked.
"My mom is . . . on vacation. She's staying at this campground. Give me five minutes to say hi."
"I'll take a smoke break. That'll give you fifteen. But then we gotta boogie."
The van pulled up in front of the campground's reservation desk.
Tully went to the desk and asked about her mother. The man on duty nodded. "Site thirty-six. Tell her she needs to pay when you see her."
