Cenus Taker

The road gave up before the mountains did.Jace Rawlins eased his mule to a stop where the wagon ruts thinned into nothing but broken stone and roots. The ridgeline ahead rose like a wall—dark timber, thick as a closed fist, with mist clinging low in the hollows. No fences. No smoke. No sign of welcome.He checked the leather satchel at his side. Inside were his census sheets, neat and official, stamped with a government seal that meant less out here than a handshake—or a warning."e;Just names and numbers,"e; he muttered, as if saying it enough times might make it true.The mule flicked an ear, unimpressed.Jace had worked hard ground before. River towns that didn't trust a man without mud on his boots. Cattle camps where a stranger's worth was measured by how quick he could duck. He'd talked his way through all of it. Sold men on things they didn't need and soothed folks who didn't want soothing.But the Appalachians… these hills felt different. Older. Like they didn't forget.