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We examined and reexamined the papers we’d been given. The site would have to stay down, for safety’s sake. At every point when they’d mentioned us not correcting typos, both in the documentation and when the judge was speaking, they’d said directly or indirectly. They’d been targeting the website with that one. That’s what they’d meant when aiming at our First Amendment rights, but how far did it extend? Plus, even though the judge had specified “public signs” as government property, Benjamin and I considered the safest route was to avoid fine lines and lie low altogether. No more typo correcting, and no more website, at least not for a year. “There’s a clarity issue here,” Benjamin said, “and I’m not talking about the ‘resitution’ in the plea agreement. How far does all of this extend?” Was the First Amendment ban only for the probationary period? That wasn’t as spelled out as I’d like. We hoped the probation officer would be able to clarify some things for us. I was more concerned about the question of the National Park ban. It wasn’t as if they’d hang wanted posters in every ranger cabin. Really, they included that so that if we did something on their territory again, they’d be able to hit us double-hard. But I wanted to stick to the letter of the law. Before we’d arrived here, I’d asked both my own lawyer and the prosecuting attorney if either could supply me with a list of territories designated as the jurisdiction of the National Park Service. Parts of the Freedom Trail, which runs through downtown Boston, could have been included, so I’d have to tread carefully. Likewise, Benjamin could still go to the Smithsonian museums, but he couldn’t walk across the National Mall. No one ever obliged us with a clarification.

At two o’clock we arrived at the probation office, upstairs in the same building as the courtroom, and began a long wait. As we sat there, Benjamin sank further into dejection. “Ahh well,” he said finally, “it’s not like I could have afforded the AT now anyway, thanks to the lawyer fees.” He’d put the Appalachian Trail off for a year for TEAL, but our ban from the parks extended into next August, way too late in the year to start. It had now been put off for two years, which is to say indefinitely. “That’s the worst part about this thing, man. I’m one of their people. No one goes outside anymore, and their budget is continually under attack. I want to be with them in this fight, but here they are wasting money on a federal court case against us instead of keeping the concealed weapons out.”*

Our probation officer, Julie, finished with the previous perp and summoned us in. We’d filled out some paperwork in the waiting room, and she now wanted to make sure we’d seen the part about what drugs and alcohol we’d used in the previous year or so. We’d left mostly blank space there. That brought us the first laugh we’d had all day. Benjamin added, “If you knew us better, you’d understand. This whole situation … isn’t very us.” She recognized that she wasn’t dealing with hardened criminals and sailed us through the rest of the operation quickly and painlessly. Though she also didn’t have a list of what counted as National Park territory, we both felt better that we’d be coordinating restitution (sorry, resitution) through Julie’s office. Once we’d returned to the rental car, Benjamin held up her business card and declared that whenever possible, if he needed to check on anything, he’d definitely check with her first. Indeed, during our interactions with her over the next year, she remained as intelligent, professional, and helpful as ever. In our dismal experience with the court system, she was the shining exception, for which we very much thank her.

We sped down to Phoenix, checked in the car, barred ourselves in a hotel room, and ordered a pizza. In the morning, Benjamin’s eye looked misshapen in a familiar way.

“I cannot believe this,” he said as he grabbed a washcloth to put over his eye. “Now I’ve got a sty. I’ve never had a sty before. I’d never even