We Are Unprepared. Meg Little Reilly

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      This book is dedicated to the wild places worth protecting.

      And to Dan, with whom I want to explore them all.

      Contents

       Cover

       Back Cover Text

       Title Page

       Dedication

PROLOGUE

PART ONE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

       SIX

       SEVEN

       EIGHT

       NINE

       TEN

       ELEVEN

       TWELVE

       THIRTEEN

       FOURTEEN

       FIFTEEN

       SIXTEEN

       SEVENTEEN

       EIGHTEEN

       NINETEEN

       PART TWO

       TWENTY

       TWENTY-ONE

       TWENTY-TWO

       TWENTY-THREE

       PART THREE

       TWENTY-FOUR

       TWENTY-FIVE

       TWENTY-SIX

       TWENTY-SEVEN

       TWENTY-EIGHT

       TWENTY-NINE

       AUTHOR’S NOTE

       ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

       WE ARE UNPREPARED READER’S GUIDE

       QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

       Copyright

PROLOGUE

      Isolé—(French) / EE-zo-LAY / adj.: isolated, remote, lonely.

      Isole—(English) / i-sol / n.: rural town in the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont. Population: 6,481.

      IT WOULD BE narcissistic to assume that the earth conjured a storm simply to alter the course of my life. More likely, we’d been poisoning this world for years while ignoring the warning signs, and The Storm wasn’t so much a cosmic intervention as it was a predictable response to our collectively reckless behavior. Either way, the resulting destruction—to North America and our orderly life in Isole—arrived so quickly that I swear we didn’t see it coming.

      Looking back, I realize how comforting those months leading up to The Storm had been as we focused on preparing for the disaster. News of the changing weather patterns gave each of our lives a new clarity and direction. It didn’t feel enjoyable at the time, but it was a big, concrete distraction in which to pour ourselves, even as other matters could have benefited from our attention. It was urgent, and living in a state of urgency can be invigorating. But the fear can be mistaken for purpose, which is even more dangerous than the threat itself.

PART ONE

      I pine, I pine for my woodland home;

      I long for the mountain stream

      That through the dark ravine flows on

      Till it finds the sun’s bright beam.

      I long to catch once more a breath

      Of my own pure mountain air,

      And lay me down on the flowery turf

      In the dim old forest there.