Update

The Folk.scriv/Files/search.indexes

@@ -1,9 +1,40 @@
 <?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?>
 <SearchIndexes Version="1.0">
     <Documents>
+        <Document ID="0198A7A6-46DE-4FFC-BA72-17EBD2713BBD">
+            <Title>Sam Eugene, PA state rep</Title>
+            <Text>Character Name
+Age • Location
+Role in Story:
+Goal:
+Physical Description:
+Personality:
+Occupation:
+Habits/Mannerisms:
+Background:
+Internal Conflicts:
+External Conflicts:
+Notes:
+</Text>
+        </Document>
         <Document ID="052230BA-7D09-4CF8-9D03-8475FF61A4CD">
             <Title>Professor interest</Title>
-            <Text>Jake initiated the transfer of Nancy’s money, and was sitting in his office looking out the window when Mrs. Miller rapped on his open door.</Text>
+            <Text>Jake initiated the transfer of Nancy’s money, and was sitting in his office looking out the window at his doomed tennis court when Mrs. Miller rapped on his open door. “Jake,” she said. “My friend Debi Whitehead is visiting. You should hear what she has to say.”
+Debi was the office manager for Sam Eugene, the local member of the Pennsylvania House of Representatives. She job-shared with her sister Donna. They’d been in the position for a long time and were well trusted by Sam and Punxsutawney. It was, in general, worth hearing what she had to say.
+Jake stood and tried to look gracious while the two women settled into the visitor chairs the Mrs. Miller, who seemed to regard him as a local nobleman, insisted were befitting his position. Mrs. Miller briefly caught him up on Debi’s husband and grandchildren, avoiding the faux pas he surely would have committed if he’d tried, and then said, “Our new neighbor has been visiting Sam’s office.”
+Debi nodded and took up the narrative. “That Hilda Kessler, prefers to be called ‘Doctor.’ She’s a visiting professor at IUP.” Indiana University of Pennsylvania was thirty miles away, but had a branch campus in Punxsy. “Her field is analytical sociology, which she says is using math to look at what people do.”
+Mrs. Miller said, “Dr. Kessler and her little sister Laurel are renting Edna McCall’s house.” She gestured across the street. “I took them cookies when they moved in a few weeks ago. They seemed surprised. Laurel didn’t say a word the whole time I was there. She’s a tiny thing, probably less than a hundred pounds, and much younger than her sister. Maybe eighteen. Hilda’s forty or more, and… well, I wouldn’t call her petite.”
+Debi made a tiny snort. “Doctor Kessler wanted an appointment with Sam, and of course I asked the topic. She went all around the barn, didn’t understand why she should have to deal with a mere secretary like me. Finally she said she’s been looking at Jefferson County finances going back several decades, and has noticed what she called anomalies over the last twenty years. More people are paying that occupational privilege tax than are on the tax roles, she says. We’re taking in too much money, she says.”
+Mrs. Miller said. “Not decades, though. Eighteen years. Since he’s been” — she glanced at Jake — “making sure they did their part for the government.”
+Debi nodded. “I don’t know, or need to know, everything, but Sam has told me you’re trying to make sure the Amish people up there” — she nodded toward the woods behind his house —  “do their part. Sam thinks it’s great that they pay voluntarily.”
+Jake was sitting up straighter. “What did you tell the professor?”
+Debi’s eyes went wide. “Well, nothing, of course. How is it her business?” The administrator shook her head. “She didn’t like that, I can tell you. Seemed to think everybody should roll over and worship her PhD. I told her it was nothing to do with the Pennsylvania House, and therefore there was no reason for her to meet with Representative Eugene.” She paused, biting her lip. “I didn’t realize she was renting a house in the area. That could make her into one of Sam’s constituents, and he prioritizes making his constituents happy, regardless of whether it’s his scope. It’s why I have a bunch of boys on retainer to shovel old ladies’ walks and mow old ladies’s grass.”
+Mrs. Miller said, “Surely Sam wouldn’t… well, blab?”
+“Oh, he’s careful enough,” Debi said. “I just like to keep him out of awkward situations when I can. I told the professor she might be better off talking to the county commissioners or the state auditor general’s office. After she left I called all of them and found out she’d already been all those places and nobody was inclined to help her. Anyway,” she heaved herself to her feet, “I thought you should know.”
+“Yes, thanks,” Jake said, also standing.
+Debi turned to her friend. “Thanks for the pie, Grace. Best in the county, at least now that my mother in law is gone. Nice to catch up with you, Jake. I don’t see you out and about very much. ”
+“I’m a homebody, Debi. I make it to church, usually. Anyway, thanks again,” he said.
+After she left he turned, again giving his attention to the tennis court.</Text>
         </Document>
         <Document ID="06C0455C-36DD-4F38-BB7B-F7DD2453A8A5">
             <Title>Characters</Title>
@@ -12,15 +43,15 @@
             <Title>Debi Whitehead</Title>
             <Text>Character Name
 Age • Location
-Role in Story:
-Goal:
-Physical Description:
-Personality:
-Occupation:
-Habits/Mannerisms:
-Background:
-Internal Conflicts:
-External Conflicts:
+Role in Story:
+Goal:
+Physical Description:
+Personality:
+Occupation:
+Habits/Mannerisms:
+Background:
+Internal Conflicts:
+External Conflicts:
 Notes:
 </Text>
         </Document>
@@ -156,6 +187,29 @@ Background:
 Internal Conflicts:
 External Conflicts:
 Notes:
+</Text>
+        </Document>
+        <Document ID="2F84DC1C-B403-4BD1-9B4A-C1D8C8F21F3C">
+            <Title>How much trouble?</Title>
+            <Text>Mrs. Miller found him there a minute later, when she returned and handed him a mug of herbal tea. As the two of them stood shoulder to shoulder looking north, she asked, “How much trouble is this going to be?”
+He wrapped his hands around the mug. “For them?” He nodded toward the window. “None. They’re pretty much untouchable. For me?” He hoisted the mug a few inches. “A bit. Contributing extra money to the tax authorities isn’t illegal, so that won’t be a problem. They” — again he nodded toward the window — “will grumble, saying I brought attention to them for no good reason, and that they’d warned me.” He took a sip of tea. “Which they did.”
+“What about the professor?” his housekeeper asked.
+“Yeah, that’s the rub,” he said. “It would really, really be best if she doesn’t get onto their radar.”
+“What do you think they’d do?”
+“Their tradition, when somebody threatens them, is to make that person disappear.”
+“But you said they’re untouchable,” Mrs. Miller pointed out.
+“Oh, I meant they’re untouchable legally. They’re still totally fixated on avoiding human interference or even influence. If they think her interference could lead to humans encroaching into their space…” He sipped his tea. “She’ll go poof.” 
+“Why are the so panicked about humans finding them? I’ve never really understood that,” she said.
+“Well, look at the history of powerful cultures interacting with weaker ones. All the explorers. They brought disease, they stole land and anything that could be stolen, they enslaved them. It’s not a pretty picture.”
+“Surely humanity has advanced past that?” she said. “We’re more civilized than those old Conquistadors.”
+He raised an eyebrow. “Do you think so?” He gestured toward the window. “I don’t know how many Folk there are as of today, but something like six hundred. Let’s say a thousand to make the math easy. Their balance sheet shows they’re worth, collectively, a bit more than a billion dollars” —
+“What?” she gasped. “How?”
+“There’s a long history. As you said, they’re industrious, and there’s the miracle of compound interest. So that means every one of them” — he pointed to the window — “leader, laborer, or infant, is a millionaire. How many people in Punxsy are millionaires, do you think? Other than you, me, and Nancy?”
+“A few,” she said.
+“Sure, a few. But I think the rest would be very envious, wondering why these aliens should have so more than they do. But” — he held up a hand — “that’s only public money. I know for sure they’ve been accumulating off-the-books wealth for years. Gold, silver. Drugs; I tried to get rid of the drugs, but who knows? More recently, Bitcoin. 
+“For that matter” — he put his mug down, becoming more agitated — “how much do you know about the history of Bitcoin? It involves very clever math, and was originated by an anonymous person or group that called itself Satoshi Nakamoto. Nobody has ever figured out who Nakamoto was, in spite of a whole lot of investigation. I think there’s a possibility that the Folk came up with Bitcoin. It’s actually very logical, they’re mathematic and computer geniuses, and they’re really good at keeping a secret. But here’s the kicker: Nakamoto has a million Bitcoin, worth something close to a hundred billion — with a B — dollars.”
+ “Oh, my,” she said.
+He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “So disease and envy by local people are one thing, but my real fear is when rumors get started. The Folk are Satoshi Nakamoto. The Folk have more gold than Fort Knox. The Folk have drums of cocaine. Or” — he waved a hand — “a collection of Beanie Babies, or US State quarters. Whatever. It would be a modern gold rush, people from all over the country, all over the world, overrunning them. They wouldn’t last a day.” He picked up his mug and sighed. “All they want is to be left alone.”
 </Text>
         </Document>
         <Document ID="323E42B8-881A-4A72-938C-1D683D78D8DF">
@@ -251,7 +305,7 @@ Your dedication here.</Text>
             <Title>The Judge</Title>
         </Document>
         <Document ID="55546254-66BC-4A33-A4CF-F06EDCF130E8">
-            <Title>Mrs. Miller</Title>
+            <Title>Mrs. Grace Miller</Title>
             <Text>Character Name
 Age • Location
 Role in Story:
@@ -302,9 +356,46 @@ ISBN:
 ISBN-13:</Text>
             <Notes>Feel free to delete this document if you don’t need it, or edit it for your needs.</Notes>
         </Document>
+        <Document ID="6246154F-D814-422F-8E7C-4842E7B55046">
+            <Title>The professor calls</Title>
+            <Text>She was, Jake thought, the least attractive human being he’d ever met.
+Since she was looking around, presumably assessing the house, he had a moment to look at her through the window, and he used it to question himself about that initial impression. He’d known people who didn’t, physically, have much going for them, and hadn’t reacted to any of them this way. He wondered why his reaction was different for her, why she repulsed him so. She was tall and broad shouldered, but no more so than Nancy, and he thought Nancy was the most attractive person he knew. 
+It was the total lack of joy, he finally decided. This woman had no light in her eyes, not even a hint of twitch to her lips. She didn’t just look unhappy, she looked determined to stay that way.
+When she began impatiently eying his doorbell he decided it was time to open the door.
+“Hello,” he said, trying to sound pleasant.
+“I’m Dr. Kessler,” she snapped. “Dr. Hilda Kessler. I’m currently an adjunct professor in computational sociology at Indiana University of Pennsylvania, and my sister and I have taken the house across the street. I presume I’m speaking to Mr. Jake Deaver?”
+“Yes, you are.” Jake chuckled. “Technically Dr. Jake Deaver, but as my mother used to say, my PhD didn’t seem to take. Call me Jake. Please come in?” Holding the door, he stepped to one side.
+She didn’t move. “Nobody told me you had a doctorate.” Explanation was demanded.
+Again he chuckled, though it sounded a bit forced in his own ears. “I’m not surprised. In a small town people think the only real doctors are the medical ones. Of course it’s different for you in academia.” He gestured, trying to look gracious. “Won’t you please come in?”
+“Where’d you get it? Your degree?”
+“Carnegie Mellon,” he said. “In physics, if you can believe it. Not exactly applicable to my present life.”
+“Hmph,” she said. He had a prestigious degree from a prestigious school. Her degree, the private detective’s report said, was from a tiny school in central Indiana that had since lost its accreditation. One step above clipping a mail order coupon from the back of a magazine, the report said, but a small step.
+Since he wanted her to be friendly — if that was even possible — Jake didn’t pursue discussion of any of this. He simply waiting, holding the door with his left hand out to invite her in, and started to feel foolish.
+Finally, still glaring at him as if he’d deceived her, she stepped inside. “I have questions for you,” she snapped.
+“About my education?” Jake was now sincerely confused. 
+“No, of course not,” she said, waving her clipboard. “Why would I care about that when nobody else does? About the community behind your house. The little people, as the locals call them.”
+“May I get you something to drink? Ice water, or tea?”
+“No, no,” she said. “This isn’t a social call. It’s academic research.” 
+Although the report said she was forty-eight years old, Jake would have guessed she was much older. His grandmother had acted more youthful at ninety.
+He steered her to the dining room table and held a chair for her until she sat. Sitting across from her, he said, “I’m afraid I’m not going to be much help to you.”
+“Why not?,” she wasped. “People say you’re the one who knows. Somebody said you make your money off this community. You and” — she looked at her clipboard — “a Miller family. They’ve been prolific.”
+He imagined the matriarch of that family listening at the kitchen door. At least he hoped she was, because he’d want to discuss the visit with her.
+“If you’ve been asking questions,” he said while trying to look pleasant, “I imagine you’ve learned that folks around here like their privacy. Myself included. It’s one of the privileges of living in a rural community.”
+“Humph,” she said. Without asking permission, she stood and crossed into his parlor, to a back window. “You’ve got a big playground out here. I see people in and out all the time. What’s the deal with that? Some kind of public park?”
+He stood and walked to stand beside her. “It’s not technically public, but it’s open to anyone from around here to use. My family has a lot of land” — 
+“Over a thousand acres!” she said. “That’s unheard of in this part of Pennsylvania. Farms are seventy acres, eighty at most.”
+He paused until he was sure she was done, and then continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “And we share these facilities with the community. It was a priority for my grandmother and my mother.”
+She peered. “Tennis court, swimming pool — what all is out there?”
+He smiled. She found a way to make the most reasonable question into a rude demand. Pointing, he said, “The swimming people is by arrangement only, for safety. We provide a lifeguard for groups. There’s a trap shooting range up behind that barn for which we also require arrangements in advance. The rest of it is open all the time. The court you’re seeing used to be tennis, now it’s pickleball. There’s a children’s playground, and badminton. Horseshoes and corn hole over there. Inside that barn there’s a ten meter range for air guns, no firearms. And over there” — he pointed — “are two trail heads. One is gentle, about a mile without serious hills. It’s very pretty, with flowering shrubs and streams. Some beavers have been flirting with it, and we’re hopeful. The other is five miles and somewhat demanding. Then there are several acres for general use. Picnics, things like that.”
+He stepped away, back toward the dining room, but she wasn’t finished. “You pay to maintain all this just because you’re a” — even hampered by the clipboard she made air quotes — “‘nice guy’?” 
+</Text>
+        </Document>
         <Document ID="62FF97C4-994E-4778-B24F-1B07FB81601D">
             <Title>Cover</Title>
         </Document>
+        <Document ID="68177DC7-9E5E-487D-97FC-2A6215674CA1">
+            <Title>Dealing with herself</Title>
+        </Document>
         <Document ID="6830B6AC-686B-4370-A979-2FD1D7288BDA">
             <Title>Places</Title>
         </Document>
@@ -357,6 +448,7 @@ Her chest inflated, a tirade building. But then she slowly released the breath.
 With a twiddle of her fingers she was out the door.
 </Text>
         </Document>
+        <Document ID="7901D076-7F2D-41A3-BBD8-E20FC951BCCC"/>
         <Document ID="7CCAC679-51EB-49B0-8108-99792FD58C5D">
             <Title>Leave me alone</Title>
             <Text>Leave me alone
@@ -508,6 +600,9 @@ Notes:
         <Document ID="9A470BDE-CF2B-4872-97C6-74F19BC90197">
             <Title>Sample Output</Title>
         </Document>
+        <Document ID="9BCE3357-5B38-4DFA-B8D8-614B86339261">
+            <Title>Dealing with herself</Title>
+        </Document>
         <Document ID="9E66CA11-F79E-4C38-AB85-70BED01C1137">
             <Title>Nancy Miller</Title>
             <Text>Character Name
@@ -1104,7 +1199,7 @@ sagi is condimentum.
 </Text>
         </Document>
         <Document ID="AD69467C-4A63-4D69-805E-C4812C3E4FF3">
-            <Title>Jake</Title>
+            <Title>Jake Deaver</Title>
             <Text>Character Name
 Age • Location
 Role in Story:
@@ -1141,6 +1236,22 @@ The wolf’s eyes flew open. “Duh! Big surprise, you wait two months after I
 “Sorry about that, but the whole point is that they want to stay off the radar. Everybody’s radar.”
 “So why tell me at all?” She carried the milk and cookies to the table and sat down. “No, I guess I get that: Because sooner or later something tangentially related is likely to come before my court.”
 He sat across from her. “Yeah. Although they haven’t for the last decade or so. It used to happen more often. Better you know up front.”</Text>
+        </Document>
+        <Document ID="BBCBF540-48C7-4D7A-976B-07EBBDCC4D90">
+            <Title>Dr. Hilda and Ms Laurel Kessler</Title>
+            <Text>Character Name
+Age • Location
+Role in Story:
+Goal:
+Physical Description:
+Personality:
+Occupation:
+Habits/Mannerisms:
+Background:
+Internal Conflicts:
+External Conflicts:
+Notes:
+</Text>
         </Document>
         <Document ID="CC277AD5-BC67-4680-B8D0-90F66BFCE738">
             <Title>Nancy</Title>
@@ -1251,6 +1362,22 @@ You can create your own templates by setting up a skeletal project with the file
         <Document ID="FD4B78C9-DEBC-4CAF-91C6-970A36B5332F">
             <Title>Paperback</Title>
         </Document>
+        <Document ID="FD60A9F9-45A4-445E-8D23-031D327CA957">
+            <Title>Solutions to the professor</Title>
+            <Text>Jake and Mrs. Miller stood silent for a minute, and then she asked, “So what are you going to do about this professor?”
+“I’m open to suggestions,” he said. “I guess I have to talk to her, but I have no idea what to say. Under other circumstances I’d ask them” — he nodded toward the window — “for a script, but they’d say I created this problem by being too scrupulous about taxes, and now they’d clean up my mess. And the worst part is they’d be right.”
+“Maybe you could seduce her,” she said. “You know, wine and dine her. That’s what James Bond would do.”
+He burst out laughing. “I’m a forty year old confirmed bachelor who rarely leaves his house, hasn’t done more than drink tea with a woman in” — he squinted for a second, calculating — “twenty-two years, and your first thought is of my romantic appeal?”
+“You’re not so bad,” she said. “You’re rich.”
+“And I have a wonderful housekeeper,” he added. “Until she decides to stay home and put her feet up.”
+“Why would I do that? You know my husband. What are we going to do, look at each other all day? Neither of us is interested in travel, and we don’t have any grand — ” She cut herself off, glancing sidelong at him. “Anyway, I enjoy coming here. It occurs to me that seducing the professor is unappealing, but her little sister is quite pretty and seemed much more demur.”
+“You said she was eighteen!”
+“I’m probably wrong about that,” she said. “Everybody looks young to me these days.”
+“Well, maybe we’re fretting about nothing. Debi and the others have blocked her, so she might give up. Meanwhile, I’m going to hire that private detective in Dubois to do a deep dive on her. Maybe she can be bribed.” He shook his head. “Financially incentivized to do something else. Offer her a million dollars to write the history of Punxsutawney Phil, or research the financial inequity of the Johnstown flood.”
+“I’d start lower,” she said. “People get suspicious when you throw big money at them.”
+“Good point,” he said. “Meanwhile, let’s hope they” — he nodded toward the window — “don’t get worked up about this.”
+“Poof,” said Mrs. Miller. Then she shrugged. “It’s a solution.”</Text>
+        </Document>
         <Document ID="FD75AC3C-F304-4EA6-ADCC-2C32D6589969">
             <Title>Intro</Title>
         </Document>