Elena tied her horse to a post in the muddy square of Mulberrymaw and lifted down a wooden board strung with sketches. She propped it where every passing boot would see it. Plans for a schoolhouse. A roof for the children who slept in alleys. She had ridden from three towns over because a boy died here last winter with no name, and no one came for him. She would not let that happen again. She stood beside the board all morning, smoothing the pinned parchment when the wind tugged at it. Men spat past her skirts. Women crossed the road. By noon, an old farrier stopped, read the sketches, and told her flat that no one would sell ground to a stranger. Without land before the first snow, the children would scatter back to the cold. Elena watched him walk away. Then she untied her horse, folded the board under her arm, and started down the row of porches. If no one would come to her plans, she would carry them door to door until someone listened.