There will always be people who want us gone, Dr. M. told me before we opened. He had a clinic in the Midwest once and knew what precautions to take. He had been careful to pick the right place, a house with small windows at the edge of town, just outside the state forest. There was no sign and we didn't give out the address, even to people we trusted.
And yet, somehow, they found us. They gathered every day across the street and prayed, waving their placards. A few at first, then steadily more, until they spilled into the road. They shoved menacing letters under our door. I came to work early and tore them up before Dr. M. could see them. Then, one day, someone brought a drum. Within a week I heard them on my way to work, miles before I saw them – pounding in unison,