"They ripped me off, cleaned me out," he cries. His lanky body shakes as he takes a short sobbing drag on his cigarette. Walt and I stand next to him on the gravel path in front of our A-frame in the early evening twilight. "When I was workin', they cleaned out my cabin," he explains, "all my clothes, my shoes, all my stuff. Then—then I'm at dinner and somebody rips off my jacket. I just got it yesterday." His throat is so tight with sobs he can hardly talk. "So I—I report it," he says, "and they tell me, 'Well, maybe you shouldn't be here if you get so—so—upset.'" He shakes his head and looks up at the few stars, drags on his cigarette again.