"George and Hilda," he says. "George has MS. They've been on that property forty years."
"I know." I've sat in their kitchen and drunk tea while Hilda walked me through the documents, and George watched from his recliner by the window and didn't say much, and I thought about them for two days after. "I fought for the full scope. The carrier didn't move as far as I needed them to."
"What's the gap?"
I give him the number.
"I'll fix what they need," he says. "I'll bill them what they can pay."
"Atlas. That's not a sustainable business model."
"The McDougalls have lived here forty years." Flat. Certain. The voice of someone who made this decision before I finished the sentence. "I'll run my business how I want."
I should say something practical. I have several practical things available. I don't say any of them.
Outside, a raven lands on the motel fence post and looks at me with the specific suspicion ravens have about parked cars. The mountains are doing something complicated with the morning light.
"Tell me about your crew," I say.
A pause. "Why?"
"I'm trying to understand you."
The pause gets a different quality. I'm aware that I called him for aprofessional reasonand the professional reason has been handled.
But, I am still on the phone. I don’t want this conversation to end.
"Danny's been with me eight years," he says, and his voice has shifted — less flat, something underneath it. "Ken three. Betty's in her second season. Danny's the better estimator. Ken's fasteron steep pitches. Betty's going to be the best of all of us in about two years."
"You're building something good."
He doesn't answer right away. When he does, his voice is quieter. "Why did you go independent?"
"My previous firm had a system for rural claims. The system kept arriving at the same number regardless of the damage. My supervisor called it calibration." A pause. "I filed a complaint. They ignored it. I left."
"And now you fight for them yourself."
"I don't always win."
"No," he says. "But you fight." The breeze picks up a bit and I feel it in my bones. "I don't let the forms be the ceiling," he says. "In case that's useful."
"It's useful," I say.
Neither of us hangs up.
"Willa."
"What?"
"Thanks for fighting for them, even if you didn’t win.”
I drive to the McDougall property after I hang up. Small bungalow, well-kept garden, the flower beds covered with burlap, the damaged porch overhang still doing its job of holding up a set of wind chimes. Hilda mentioned George can hear them from his chair.
I leave an envelope in their mailbox. Personal cheque. The gap, covered.
I drive away before I can talk myself out of it.
The hotel side room has become my temporary office, which is Maple's doing — she offered and it was the right offer and I took it. I spend the afternoon in the historical claim records for Silver Ridge, which is standard process for a portfolio this size.
