In Tent City: A Novel by Amy L. Bernstein, a once-stable family is pushed to the brink when economic collapse transforms their backyard into a refuge for the desperate, forcing them to confront betrayal, resilience, and the unraveling of the American Dream. Below is an excerpt from the novel.

Chapter One

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Not a single one of the natural or manmade features drawn so distinctly on an 1872 map of the town of Willing, in Remington County, remains visible in the twenty-first century. The Tong River that once ran like a crooked seam through the town, cleaving it in two, was dammed and paved over by 1915. The sawmills and textile mills hugging the Tong’s shores were gone before that. Gone too were the smoke-stacked candy factory, the spice factory, and the smelly tannery that rose up in fits of fevered industry as the town’s borders expanded. All the jobs generated by the organized dismantling of all these large commercial properties dried up ages ago—the bricks carted off to begin life anew in service to less grand enterprises.

No matter. Sylvia Bird King never studied an 1872 map of Willing. And when the time came 15 years ago for Sylvia, then pregnant with twins Jeannie and Zeke, and her husband Carson King to buy their first house, Willing’s old industrial sob story wasn’t on the radar. And that house, oh that house: love at first sight. The house itself was a spacious but standard-issue center-hall colonial. But the yard told a different story, a story about success and prosperity that reflected the perpetual gleam in the couple’s eyes. Three acres of undivided land, the largest undeveloped plot of residentially zoned land in all of Willing—longer than two football fields combined. History and nature
had conspired to create an enormous, level carpet of grass running the full width of the rear of the Kings’ house and then many hundreds of yards beyond the back deck, stopping only at a dense stand of pin oak trees, which in turn lead downhill to a forgotten stream that was once a tributary to the Tong. Carson insisted upon keeping the expanse weed-free and uncluttered. No children’s swing set or climbing castle. No garden gnomes or rose bushes. The yard was adorned simply by virtue of its own sweeping green expanse. The Kings called it the manor grounds and considered it their economic insurance policy: land that could be subdivided and sold at an enormous profit someday. A day they knew was bound to arrive, as if foretold. 

On a recent April morning, the yard is in fine form, as usual. But it is also beside the point. Sylvia and Carson, wrapped in blankets, drink coffee on the east-facing deck, as they so often do, the morning light glinting off the glass-topped table lightly coated with pollen dust. Both have eyes glued to phones. Neither takes in the hopping robins and the first fresh green grass of the season glistening with dew.

Carson argues with a text. “We’re not doing that. Not letting Bruno and Jorge go.”

Sylvia pursues her own train of thought. “If I don’t sell the Walters property this week, they’ll pull the contract.”

“We’re over-budget on these damn houses,” Carson growls. “But it’s just a blip. Vin and Dizz, over-reacting again.”

Sylvia glances briefly at her husband. “I need you to get Jeannie after soccer this afternoon.”

“Again?”

Sylvia shoots him a look. “I’ll trade you one Jeannie pick-up for a trip with Zeke and his friends to the monster truck show on Saturday.”

“But I want to go to the monster truck show. Guy time.”

“Fine,” she says. Checkmate. “Then you can do both.”

Carson’s phone rings. “Yeah, I’m heading out to the site now. We’ll talk about it when I get there. Listen, Vin, you and Dizz gotta start playing the long-game!” He waves absently at Sylvia and disappears inside the house.

Sylvia looks out across the lawn, cup halfway to her lips.

Between one rapid eye blink and another, everything in her line of sight shifts. The great lawn is now blanketed by rows and rows of pitched tents—a sea of colored nylon pyramids and plastic stakes drilled into the soft earth, threaded with thin, taught ropes. Sylvia blinks hard, her phone falling by her side. She looks again: Tents everywhere. Shad ows move inside the tents, as sunlight hits the opaque structures. And a sound comes from nowhere, yet is everywhere, a loud rush of air, almost voice-like in its insistence. Sylvia looks away, eyes welling with tears for no reason. No one is nearby to confirm or deny this vision—or what it might mean. The people who know her best, who wouldn’t hesitate to tell her she’s crazy, are inside, getting ready for the day.

Sylvia stands and scoops up her phone. No, she thinks. I have no time for this…menopausal bullshit…or whatever it is. She turns quickly toward the sliding glass doors, just in time to catch twins Jeannie and Zeke—earbuds jammed in, the better to tune out parental instructions.

“Bye,” the twins chorus, then disappear. Sylvia waves at their backs—lanky, brown-haired Jeannie, and curly blond Zeke, always in a hurry now.

Her phone rings as she turns back to face the yard, reassured by the ordinary, featureless expanse of green.

“With all due respect, Mr. Walters, our agreement says the end of the month,” Sylvia tells her caller. “I still have a whole week. I’m doing absolutely everything I can, believe me. Please… No, I’m not… I don’t need…Thank you…You too.”

Terrible clients, the Walters. A realtor’s worst nightmare: fussy, always changing their minds. And what expectations! Unrealistic—even in the best of markets. Irritated, Sylvia turns back again to the yard for solace, a slight catch in her breath. It’s just stress. But reality is once more out of sync, the vast acreage again transformed—a full-on encampment now. Among the tents, fires burn inside metal drums. Laundry dries on strung-up ropes. A soccer ball and a child’s doll lie on the ground just feet from the deck. Sylvia shakes her head briskly before dashing inside to grab car keys, purse, and the extravagantly expensive lavender coat with flower-shaped buttons she bought recently, just because it’s spring, and because the color contrasts nicely with her thick, brown, shoulder-length curls.

Get a grip.

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