Recolonizing Spokane, in the Inlander

Why do they keep coming, is my first question, followed by, And when are they going to leave?

I know the answer is, Never, or, Only when they die.

But I keep thinking they might find another place to go — Butte, say, or France, or some other undiscovered paradise, where they can spread their money like manure in fields waiting to be made fertile, all these mid-career consultants, all these artisanal mayonnaise makers, rising up and away like a plague of locusts.

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