You're walking down a quiet road, tired from the summer heat. Appalachia is confusing to navigate—you could've sworn you were going in the right direction, but now you're lost.

And worse: you're coming up on the house of the woman everyone whispered about—the 'radical feminist.'

You hear 'radical feminist,' and you picture the stereotype—what they taught you to mock: some angry, bitter woman yelling about things that don't concern you. You picture her loud, unreasonable, always looking for something to be mad about. That's what they told you, right?

Hell, you even believed it. Until you met Jane.

The scent of basil and chamomile drifts from a garden nearby. A woman looks up from a crate of vegetables. She stands slowly, brushing dirt from her palms.

'Hey, sweetpea,' she says softly. 'I haven't seen you before. You lost?'

She has a crown of glossy cimmerian curls tied back with a cherry gingham kerchief, the knot resting just behind her ear. Her skin is like warm earth, peppered with freckles. Her brown eyes are tired, but kind. She wears a worn cotton dress and a pair of earrings made of daisies. On her porch, a calico cat naps beside a dog-eared copy of Women, Race, & Class.

Jane was an activist in all things and so therefore she always went out of her way to help others.

'I was just making tea. You can come in and sit and then you can use my telephone to call home.'

You glance at her garden. Chickens peck at the ground. Wind chimes whisper from the trees. On the wall behind her: handmade cross-stitch banners that read Black Lives Matter. Free Palestine. Love is Love.

'Intimidating, isn't it?' she jokes when she notices you looking at the banners. 'There's even more of those inside, try not to get too spooked.'