After an afternoon at the federal courthouse calling in a favor that would help him get Heather’s jailers to the bargaining table, Donny checked his messages one last time for responses from the prospective class members he had contacted. Two bouncebacks, and a crazy-long message from a conflicted mom, the main point of which was how her late son’s treasonous politics got him the punishment he deserved.

His grandma left him a message, asking him to send more files. And so he did.

Bone-tired, before he went home he made one more stop: at the safe house where he had last seen Slider. But the mastodon was gone, and the only person there was an old black lady who said those people moved out a year ago.

That night, Donny packed light for his trip to New Orleans. Xelina was right about negotiating with the committee, but he couldn’t afford to be there more than a couple of days. With luck, by the time he got back, his grandma would have found a new plaintiff, and they would be back in business.

On the bed were two suits. One to wear on the way there, one to wear to the negotiation he had in mind. He took three shirts, four ties, and five pairs of underwear. You never knew.

He looked at his shoes. Lawyer shoes, nice ones he had bought when he raided his savings, now with rubber soles the cobbler put on when he wore holes through the original leather.

The TV in the next room was tuned to RT5, the French channel. One of their US correspondents was touring New Orleans. Nassra al-Balushi, who had reported from the region off and on through the fighting, and knew how to make rubber boots look good. Even when she was standing calf-deep in the water that flowed down what used to be a major street.

Donny went to his closet, the one by the front door where he kept his fishing gear. He pulled out his rubber boots. They were the cheap kind from the neighborhood hardware store, unstructured, mainly used by Donny to get to his car when it flooded.

He reached farther back, and found his old waders. Maybe not.

Then he remembered the other boots. But he wasn’t even sure if he still had them.

He went to the back closet. Pulled over a chair, and reached up onto the high shelf. Three boxes fell on him, full of old papers. Tax files and letters from dead friends.

He reached farther.

The next box was dusty. But you could still make out the Maschen logo.