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A Lyon County Chronicle of Hope and Horror

Now, friends, let me tell you a tale fit for the annals of contradiction—a tale that ambles through the dusty lanes of Lyon County, where good folks are laboring to protect the most innocent among us even as some devils still prowl beneath their roofs.

Lyon County Human Services, bless their hearts. They are earnest in their mission. They’re doing their level best to lend a hand to families before trouble sets in like a squatter and refuses to leave. Their programs aim to prevent child abuse and neglect and to keep families stitched together with a strong thread of education, resources, and neighborly support. April, that fresh-faced month when springtime peeks over the horizon, is also Child Abuse Prevention Month—when the community dons blue like soldiers in a noble campaign to raise awareness and shield children from harm.

They’ve got pinwheels, blue ones, bright and spinning like little beacons of hope, planted in town parks and playgrounds from Dayton to Silver Springs, Fernley to Yerington. The whole county’s invited—mothers, fathers, children with muddy boots and grass-stained knees—to plant those pinwheels and show the world that Lyon County stands watch over its young.

But wouldn’t you know it, just as the townsfolk are preparing their pinwheels and blue shirts for April’s events, the devil showed his hand right in Dayton. On the eve of the very month dedicated to protecting children, a man named Saul Gallegos-Duron, age 40, was taken into custody after his child turned up at school bearing the cruelty of a beating. “Blunt force trauna,” they called it—bruises like dark clouds across a young sky.

Sheriff’s deputies rushed to the school, and paramedics did their swift duty, hauling that poor soul off to the hospital for the kind of care no child should ever need. The investigation, grim and thorough, turned its eye toward the home, and there they found the culprit—not some stranger in the night, but the boy’s father.

The Nevada Division of Child and Family Services stepped in with the quiet precision of seasoned angels, gathering up the remaining children and ferrying them to safety, far from the reach of the hands that should’ve been gentle.

And so we find ourselves in this strange Nevada fable, where the county rallies with bright ribbons and laughter in the parks while a child suffers unspeakable harm behind closed doors. It is a harsh truth, as hard and cracked as the desert earth—but it’s the truth just the same.

So wear your blue, plant your pinwheels, and hold your children close.

Virginia and her three friends—Alice, Georgia, and Willow—huddled around the coffee table, the dim glow of scented candles flickering against the living room walls. The bottle of cabernet sat open, deep red in their glasses, a little courage against the unknown.

Waiting patiently like a stealthy predator, the Ouija board lay in the center of the table.

“Ask it a question,” Willow said, her voice light but her eyes tight.

“No, you ask,” Georgia countered, smirking over the rim of her glass. “It was your idea.”

The planchette twitched. Then, before anyone could react, it lurched to life, skittering across the board with a frantic, almost desperate energy. Alice and Virginia pressed their fingers down, trying to steady it, but the thing moved as if it had a mind of its own.

S-I-N-C-E-Y-O-U-W-I-L-L-N-O-T-A-S-K-A-Q-U-E-S-T-I-O-N-L-E-T-I-T-B-E-K-N-O-W-N-W-E-H-A-V-E-B-E-E-N-T-R-Y-I-N-G-T-O-R-E-A-C-H-Y-O-U-A-B-O-U-T-Y-O-U-R-C-A-R-S-W-A-R-R-A-N-T-Y-W-I-L-L-O-W…

They barely had time to register the words before the room plunged into darkness. Then someone screamed.

It was a fine spectacle last week when a mighty throng of high school and middle school girls, accompanied by their long-suffering parents, descended upon the Assembly Education Committee in Nevada, pleading for what ought to be the most self-evident right in the world–the right for women to compete against women in their sporting events. But, alas, such simple logic is not so simple to those who fancy themselves the improvers of society–nor to those who look at a straight line and declare it a circle.

The object of the day’s grand petitioning was AB 240, a bill with the shocking audacity to assert that biological males ought not to compete in women’s sports—a principle so sound that only a politician could find fault with it. Sixteen Republican legislators stood in favor, which in the strange arithmetic of modern politics means it needs opposing with all the might of those who find reason a troublesome burden.

Chairwoman Selena Torres-Fossett, a Democrat by trade and an educator by profession–though one wonders whether she prefers ignorance to knowledge–was unmoved. She said with the confidence of a lady who knows, “Nevada voters were not talking to me about this.”

Instead, they were worried about housing, prescription costs, and the price of a loaf of bread. No doubt they are—but perhaps that is because common folk assume certain things, such as the separation of male and female sports, are too obvious to require discussion.

The lieutenant governor of Nevada, Stavros Anthony, had a different notion. Being a man of sense, he thought it wise to form a task force to preserve what is left of women’s sports before the whole enterprise gets reduced to an absurd exhibition of well-trained men sweeping up every trophy.

It did not sit well with Madame Torres-Fossett, who, rather than admitting the lieutenant governor had a point, took it upon herself to scold him for not concerning himself with matters more fitting to his station—like tourism, roads, and anything, presumably, that does not interfere with her notions of progress.

Meanwhile, the esteemed Nevadans for Equal Rights Committee, whose devotion to ‘equality’ evidently means ensuring that women’s sports remain open to men, filed an ethics complaint against Anthony, accusing him of misusing state resources for his crusade. One wonders how much state time and money got wasted ensuring that a man’s right to dominate women’s volleyball got preserved.

The catalyst for all this commotion? A single forfeit last fall, when the University of Nevada, Reno’s women’s volleyball team took one look at their opponent’s lineup, saw a player whose physique resembled something one might expect on a cattle drive rather than a sorority house, and decided that they were not in the business of humoring nonsense.

Their refusal to play against San Jose State’s team, which featured a transgender athlete, sent the issue soaring into the political stratosphere.

In a moment of rare clarity, former President Trump took pen to paper last month and signed an executive order barring transgender athletes from women’s sports altogether.

It, of course, was met with outrage by those who maintain that the best way to ensure ‘fairness’ is to erase every distinction that ever existed.

Torres-Fossett, who by this point had become positively weary of the topic, lamented that coaches might soon be required to verify the ‘feminine-enough’ qualities of their athletes—which would be laughable if it weren’t precisely the situation that policies like hers have created. But worry not, for in the world of the enlightened, the only thing necessary to be declared a woman is to say so, and if reality objects–reality’s got to be overruled.

And so, the bill sits in limbo, awaiting the day when either reason prevails, or we all agree to close our eyes and pretend the fella with broad shoulders and five o’clock shadow is supposed to be the champion of women’s athletics all along. It’s a new era of progress, indeed.

Well, well, well—what have we here? Another lawsuit from the great state of Nevada flung like a well-worn horseshoe at the ever-stoic post of Washington bureaucracy. One wonders if Attorney General Aaron Ford is getting bulk discounts on legal filings.

Is this the 23,000th suit since January? Who’s keeping count? Certainly not the clerks in his office—they’re too busy sharpening their pencils for the next one.

This time, Nevada joins a chorus of twenty-three states and the District of Columbia in hollering at the federal government over what they claim is an unlawful axing of nearly $12 billion in public health grants. At the center of the ruckus is Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. and the Department of Health and Human Services, who, according to Ford’s office, have wielded the budgetary scythe with reckless abandon, leaving state health agencies in a sorry state of distress.

For its part, Nevada could lose a tidy $35 million meant for the State Public Health Laboratory, with further damage rippling out to universities and nonprofits. In his official statement, Ford did not mince words, declaring the decision to be a grave affront to the well-being of Nevadans and vowing to see it undone in court.

The lawsuit seeks an emergency restraining order to halt the cuts and a declaration that the terminations were, in fact, unlawful. Whether the courts will see it that way or tell Nevada and its fellow litigants to sit in the corner remains to be seen.

If lawsuits were a commodity, Nevada’s stock would be soaring.

On the first day of April, a date well-suited for bold proclamations and practical jokes, Governor Joe Lombardo stood before the good people of Nevada, declaring that his housing bill could turn a modest $250 million into over a billion bucks worth of development. Now, that’s the sort of arithmetic that would make an alchemist jealous, turning state funds into gold—or at least into apartment buildings.

He made this pronouncement outside the Ovation Property Management project, Heirloom at Pebble, a soon-to-be-opened senior housing complex with rents ranging from $893 to $1,285. The project, situated near Eastern Avenue and the 215 Beltway in Vegas, is expected to welcome its first tenants in May—assuming they can outpace inflation with their retirement checks.

The governor’s legislative handiwork, Assembly Bill 540, is one of the five precious bills he gets to introduce each session, a privilege akin to a man picking his last meal before facing a firing squad of political opposition.

The bill, dense enough to give a lawyer a headache, lays out a grand vision as it establishes the Nevada Attainable Housing Account, generously seeded with $200 million for loans, grants, and rebates to build housing across the affordability spectrum. The Nevada Housing Division will toss in an extra $50 million, bringing the pot to a quarter-billion dollars—still a pittance compared to the price of a single-bedroom in San Francisco, but a start.

In a shocking twist, developers must match the state’s funds. The bill also seeks to exempt these housing projects from prevailing wage laws, ensuring that laborers can enjoy the thrill of working for less in service of the greater good.

But wait—there’s more!

The bill offers rental assistance, eviction diversion funds, expedited approvals, permit reimbursements, and even provisional contractor’s licenses in rural areas. In short, it aims to turn Nevada into a paradise where housing is as plentiful as casino chips—though, like the chips, one suspects most of it will end up in the hands of a select few.

Ever the statesman, Lombardo assured Nevadans that he did not dream up this plan alone. Nope!

He consulted developers and the Southern Nevada Homebuilders Association, who, as luck would have it, stand to benefit handsomely from his legislative largesse.

“If you look at polling data across the board, no matter what subject matter it is, affordable housing comes to the top,” the governor declared as if he had just uncovered this stunning revelation.

Meanwhile, in a subplot as predictable as the ending of a dime novel, Assembly Democrats pounced. They pointed to Lombardo’s 2023 vetoes of housing bills and lamented the rising eviction rates and sky-high home prices.

The Nevada State Democratic Party’s spokesman, Tai Sims, thundered against the governor’s refusal to rein in corporate investors. He accused him of leaving working Nevadans to fend for themselves in a market devoured by hedge funds.

Speaking of which, the elephant—or rather, the New York hedge fund—in the room is Pretium Partners, which now holds dominion over at least 3,190 homes in Clark County. One can almost hear the dice rolling now.

Assembly Speaker Steve Yeager, meanwhile, extended the hand of cautious optimism. He looks forward to the bill’s hearing before the Assembly Commerce and Labor Committee–where the finer points are up for discussion with all the care and delicacy of a saloon brawl.

And so, dear reader, the great Nevada housing saga marches on. Will Lombardo’s billion-dollar gamble pay off, or will it be just another mirage shimmering in the desert sun? The Legislature has until June to decide, and in the meantime, the people of Nevada will do what they do best—wait, watch, and hope they can still afford their rent.

Once upon a time in America, a man worked himself to the bone to keep his wife and new baby housed, fed, and out of the poorhouse, while the lady of the house saw to it that neither the child nor the furniture accumulated too much dust. But, dear reader, that was a simpler age.

The Nevada Legislature has taken it upon itself to ensure that families no longer rely on such antiquated notions as thrift, sacrifice, or good old-fashioned gumption—no, ma’am! They got a plan to expand paid family leave benefits at a rate that would make even the most indulgent grandparent blush.

Those lucky enough to be employed in Nevada’s Executive Department get eight weeks of paid leave—provided they’ve been on the job for at least a year—should they find themselves with a new child, a serious illness, or a relative needing care. But lo and behold, Assembly Bill 388 seeks to slash that waiting period from twelve months to a mere ninety days while bumping the leave to a full twelve weeks.

But why stop there? The bill also expands the acceptable reasons for paid absence to include bonding with a foster child, recuperating from unspecified “health conditions,” or dealing with the unfortunate realities of domestic strife, such as harassment or stalking.

And lest one worry about paltry pay during such an extended holiday, the bill sees to that, too. Whereas current law only provides half-wages during paid leave, the new proposal ensures that employees making up to 110 percent of the state’s average wage will now receive an entire paycheck, courtesy of their obliging employer.

Those making beyond that sum will still pocket a respectable 60 percent of their earnings, though not to exceed 150 percent of the state’s weekly wage—because even generosity has its limits, or so one is told.

The largesse does not end there.

The bill further decrees that all public and private employers with at least 50 employees must establish “reasonable procedures” for doling out these benefits. And should any tightfisted business owner balk at such mandates, fear not—the Human Resources Commission and Labor Commissioner will be standing by to ensure compliance, and those who dare defy the new order, penalties of up to $5,000 per violation are waiting in the wings.

Of course, in their magnanimity, the bill’s backers have also done away with older statutes relating to leave for domestic violence and the like, folding them neatly into this grand new framework. The bill’s supporters assure the good people of Nevada that these changes will do wonders for work-life balance and the general well-being of the state’s industrious citizens.

And who are we to argue?

No one could surely object to more paid time off—least of all those footing the bill. But one can only wonder, as the lawmakers debate, whether they’ll feel inclined to take a few weeks’ leave after such an exhausting bout of legislating.

It was a fine April afternoon in Nevada, and the good citizens, who had just shaken off the winter chill, gathered with an old-fashioned purpose: to make a racket about their power bills. Armed with banners, voices, and a fair bit of indignation, they set upon NV Energy like a debtor sets upon a banker who’s been too free with his late fees.

“We want clean energy, no more fossil fuels, and rates that don’t make a fella choose between keeping the lights on or buying his supper,” declared Tori Lee, a local firebrand with the Progressive Leadership Alliance of Nevada. The crowd hummed their agreement, and one could almost hear the silent prayers of every overworked air conditioner in the valley, hoping their next run wouldn’t break the bank.

Tuesday’s protest was aptly named “Fossil Fools Day,” a jab at NV Energy and its apparent love affair with coal and gas. The timing was no accident, as across the nation, similar scenes played out in front of the many-headed hydra that is Berkshire Hathaway’s utility empire. From the plains to the deserts, common folk were crying out for relief from rates that climb faster than a cat up a tree with a dog on its tail.

Berkshire Hathaway, ever the silent type when confronted with an uncomfortable truth, declined to comment. One can imagine the company men, tucked safely in their fine offices, peering through drawn curtains, hoping the rabble outside would tire themselves out before supper.

NV Energy, for its part, did not sit entirely silent. Meghin Delaney, their chosen spokesperson, stepped forward with the grace of a woman well-practiced in delivering news folks would rather not hear.

“We’re adding renewables all the time,” she assured the crowd, “but the battery storage needed for a full switch would cost more than an honest man’s patience.”

In the meantime, they planned to do away with coal—by 2025, at least—which to some ears sounded a bit like promising to start a diet after the next holiday feast.

But it wasn’t just the energy source that had people fuming–it was the cost. NV Energy, ever mindful of its bottom line, has put in for a nine percent rate increase, which may shrink under the watchful eye of the Public Utilities Commission, but only after several hundred days of haggling—an eternity for anyone staring down the arrival of the summer heat.

For those struggling the most, NV Energy dangled a small olive branch. “We’re looking at removing the basic service charge for low-income customers, saving them about twenty bucks a month,” Delaney noted as if a drop of water might quench the thirst of a parched man.

And yet, despite these assurances, the protesters were unconvinced. “I’m really worried about what this summer is going to bring for some people,” Lee admitted. It was hard to blame her. With the price of everything but bad news going up, the promise of an eventual rate decrease sounded about as comforting as a banker promising to lower your mortgage—after he’s raised it twice.

NV Energy sent out a letter to customers, thick with assurances that their investments in infrastructure would lower costs in the long run. They spoke of transmission lines, battery storage, new proposals for low-income rates, and solar adjustments. They even produced a fine chart comparing 2024’s bills to the projected 2025 costs, claiming customers would pay less so long as they didn’t dare use any extra energy.

By 2030, they say, half of Nevada’s energy will be renewable, a number promising until one considers how often promises turn to dust in the desert wind. For now, the people wait, sweating under the weight of another long summer, hoping the power stays on—and they can afford to pay for it when it does.

Archie Dillion was the sort of man who believed himself to be smarter than the law, the kind that figured he could slip a knife between a child’s ribs and walk away clean. But most murder cops know a truth as old as crime itself—killers come back. Whether guilt or arrogance, they find their way to the scene again, like wolves circling a campfire.

After the killing, Dillion drifted into St. Anthony’s, where the townsfolk had gathered for a novena, their prayers rising like smoke for the lost child. He slipped through the crowd, just another face among the mourners.

He strode up the aisle, knelt before the altar, and struck a match. The flame flickered in his fingers as he touched it to the novena candle. He made the sign of the cross, his lips barely moving.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” he murmured, pushing himself up as he whispered, “Amen.”

The glass shattered like a gunshot. Red shards flew, and one found its mark, slicing deep into the side of his neck.

Hot blood spilled fast, running down his collar as his fingers clutched at the wound. The church gasped as he staggered forward, but no hand reached out to catch him. Archie Dillion fell hard on the chancel, his breath rattling once before he went still.

Justice had come, swift and unrelenting, in the house of the Lord.

When the Walker River Paiute Tribe got wind of a taxpayer-funded $20 million grant landing in their laps, tribal leaders must have felt like a prospector who just struck gold—only to find out later it was fool’s gold and belonged to the bank. Their long-suffering water system, more patches than a riverboat gambler’s coat, was finally due for some honest-to-goodness improvement.

But alas! Washington, D.C., the great and terrible wizard of wealth distribution, had other plans.

“Now we can build homes, create jobs, and finally have water pressure that don’t resemble an old man’s spit!” declared Chair Melanie McFalls with all the optimism of a farmer before a locust swarm.

But fate, in the form of shifting political winds, proved as reliable as a poker game in which the dealer keeps changing the rules. Enter the Biden administration, tossing grants around like a spendthrift uncle at a family reunion, desperate to get the money out the door before Trump came striding back into town.

Then, lo and behold, just as the ink dried, the new sheriff arrived, taking a red pen to it, declaring war on anything smelling remotely like “DEI and Environmental Justice.” It included the tribe’s long-awaited windfall.

The Nevada Clean Energy Fund, which had been holding the purse strings, suddenly found its pockets empty, and tribal plans came to a screeching halt.

“Oh, don’t worry,” said the Environmental Protection Agency in its best soothing tones. “We’re just taking a little look-see to ensure this is a proper use of taxpayer dollars.”

It’s Washington-speak for “Don’t hold your breath.”

Meanwhile, the tribe had already sunk over a million dollars into the project, only to be left holding an empty sack. They’d planned for fire hydrants, clean water, a community hub for emergencies, and even a food pantry expansion, but the federal government had other ideas.

The Trump administration’s latest pastime seems to be rooting out any vestiges of environmental justice as though it were a weed overtaking the lawn of crony capitalism. The Department of Agriculture even pulled funding for the tribe’s local food program because heaven forbid people have fresh produce grown within a stone’s throw of their homes.

So now, the tribe’s fate is in the hands of Nevada’s politicians, all scurrying about trying to figure out who still owes them a favor in Washington. Republican Rep. Mark Amodei is making calls, while Democratic Sen. Jacky Rosen is shaking her fist at the White House. Governor Lombardo, meanwhile, is doing his best impression of a man considering his options, which is to say he is considering them very, very slowly.

And so, the machinery of government rolls on, grinding dreams into dust as efficiently as ever. Somewhere, a bureaucrat is undoubtedly patting himself on the back for saving the taxpayers a few bucks—while another one drafts a request for a $50 million study on why Nevada’s tribal water systems are in such a state of disrepair.

The Winner is Women

Well, ladies and gentlemen, the great state of Nevada has finally done what it should have from the beginning—shut the barn door before all the horses turned into zebras. The Nevada Interscholastic Activities Association (NIAA)–after what one can only assume was an exhausting amount of hand-wringing and paper-shuffling, has declared that student-athletes must compete in sports according to the sex God and their unaltered birth certificate assigned them, rather than whichever gender they happened to fancy that morning.

The decision met with great rejoicing among those who still believe words have meaning and that fairness in competition isn’t an old wives’ tale. Lt. Gov. Stavros Anthony, never one to mince words, heralded the move as a victory for women’s sports, ensuring that young ladies no longer have to compete against gentlemen in borrowed skirts for their scholarships and trophies.

Of course, there was the usual gnashing of teeth from the professional outrage industry, who immediately began squinting at the Nevada Constitution in search of an escape clause. The ACLU’s Athar Haseebullah declared the decision “patently discriminatory,” proving once again that common sense is an acquired taste.

Meanwhile, some school officials fretted over the logistics, wondering aloud how to verify birth certificates for students without them—though one might reasonably ask whether verifying someone’s birth sex is any more complicated than figuring out if they turned in their math homework. The Board, in true bureaucratic fashion, has scheduled an emergency meeting in May to complicate the obvious even further.

In any case, Nevada has now joined 38 other states in stating the simple truth: girls’ sports are for girls. It is a radical concept, to be sure, but one that worked quite well for several millennia before some folks decided to reinvent reality.

In the meantime, perhaps we can all enjoy the quaint and antiquated notion that fairness, after all, is not just an old relic of the past.