Tackling extremist groups like the fictional ‘Sons of Liberty’ (DSOL) in the narrative required walking a very fine line. The challenge, as I saw it, was how to portray the underlying currents and motivations feeding such movements without descending into simplistic caricature, yet equally, without inadvertently lending credence to dangerous ideologies. It was essential for me to connect their anger, at least partially, to the tangible anxieties voiced elsewhere in the book – by the farmers grappling with tariffs, the small-town residents feeling economically precarious and politically forgotten, the palpable sense of disillusionment simmering just beneath the surface, articulated in places like Georgie’s barbershop.

The choice of the name ‘Sons of Liberty’ was, of course, deliberate. That historical echo is meant to provoke thought, to question how potent symbols of patriotism and revolution can be co-opted and twisted across time. Did the depiction of the clandestine barn meeting, with its unsettling blend of MAGA hats and colonial garb, verge on being too overt? Perhaps. But that visual juxtaposition felt necessary to capture the strange, ahistorical fusion present in certain political movements of that moment. My aim wasn’t to foster sympathy for the group’s actions, but to cultivate a degree of understanding about the environment – the economic strains, the political rhetoric, the sense of grievance – that allows such movements to gain traction. Acknowledging the fertile ground doesn’t excuse the harvest, but it is necessary for a complete picture.