JAMIE BEARD was worried. She was at the wheel of a black Toyota Prius, multitasking at 80 mph down the Hardy Toll Road out of George Bush Intercontinental Airport. Just before picking me up, she had been interviewed for a national TV news show. Now, swerving through lanes, she was running through various shit scenarios: What if something she said pisses off one of the oil and gas executives she had come to adore, or one of her fellow climate activists? f As she was ruminating and driving, a Ford F-150 with tires higher than the Prius is tall squeezed by us in the fast lane, so close that Jamie gripped the wheel tight to keep the little car steady. One side of her hair was buzz-cut; the other was abob. It, like the rest of her, was steady and roiling at the same time. "Welcome to Texas," she hollered. A grin spread across the small oval face that makes her look more 24 than 44, and she turned her attention to our destination: "Just wait until you see the Woodlands. The cops patrol the streets on white horses!"
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