The man's gaze sharpened. "I'm Deputy Rusk, Sheriff's Office."
Martha absorbed that. Sheriff's Office, not FEMA, not the power company, not a rescue volunteer. A deputy, clean boots, filming.
"Martha Caldwell."
Rusk's eyes flicked to Dean. "And you are?"
Dean didn't puff up. He didn't hide. "Dean."
Rusk waited for more. "Dean what?"
Dean's voice stayed calm. "Dean is enough."
Rusk's stare hardened. "Not for my report."
Martha stepped half a pace forward before she could stop herself. "Deputy, my report is my roof is gone, my phone lines are down, and you're standing here with a camera like this is entertainment."
Rusk's jaw tightened, but he kept his tone light. "Ma'am, I'm doing my job. People get nervous when groups like this show up."
"People get nervous when tornadoes show up," Martha shot back.
A rider with the thick beard and scar down his cheek spat into the mud and muttered, "Tell him, Martha."
Dean shifted his eyes to him, a warning without words. The bearded rider shut up, but his shoulders stayed tight.
Rusk's gaze bounced between faces, counting patches, counting bodies. "You got identification, sir?" he asked Dean.
Dean nodded. "In my saddlebag."
Rusk's hand moved toward his belt, not drawing, just resting there, making sure everybody saw it. "Go get it."
Dean didn't move yet. He looked at Martha first. Martha felt the moment for what it was, a test, not of Dean, of her.
If she let the deputy order the man around her property, the deputy wouldn't stop. He'd take the inch and turn it into a mile.
"Deputy," Martha said, "if you want to check IDs, you can do it down at the road. My driveway is a mess, and you're in the way."
Rusk's eyes narrowed. "Ma'am, I'm not refusing."
Martha cut in. "I'm telling you where to stand while you do it."
For a second, the deputy looked like he might push back harder. Then his expression shifted, smile returning, thin as paper.
"All right, roadside it is, but I'm going to need everyone to stay put until the sheriff gets here."
The word sheriff landed heavy in the wet air. Dean finally spoke like he was choosing each syllable carefully.
"We're not here for trouble."
Rusk's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Then this will be easy."
He climbed back into the SUV and backed it out slowly, tires grinding through debris like he was proving he could. The vehicle turned toward the road and stopped at the edge of the ditch. The wipers kept sweeping.
Martha watched him through the rain. "He's waiting," she said.