In How, Wisconsin, I broke my rule of never approaching a house hidden from the road if it advertises itself with Trump flags, which is why I found myself backing up, very slowly, before two barrel-chested barking black Labs. Their owner was Jerry Pinchart, a fit former contractor with white hair and skin almost exactly the same color as his salmon T-shirt. It was the afternoon of Dobbs, which Jerry told me was good news but also bad. Good for God, bad for the nation, which now faces “chaos.” He was a proud no-exceptions man. Rape, incest—God let it happen for reason. Life of the mother? No,
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