Half a mile farther along was the Nest of Lies, a newish prefab building sporting a lot of bullet holes. Or to be precise, dents, since it seemed, on closer viewing, to be bolted together out of something with a lot of layers, a materials science tour de force that could stop most rounds in common use. A single car, a sensible sport-utility vehicle, was parked where it would be shaded by a photovoltaic panel during the hottest part of the day. At the moment, though, it was exposed to low late-afternoon sunlight. Out of some sense that the place was worthy of their patronage, Sophia overrode the car’s nav program and guided it into a spot near the sport-ute. That vehicle’s license plates were not issued by Utah but by the Municipal Authority of Moab. And Sophia—who had been reading about this—already knew why. The Utah state legislature had been taken over by Moab truthers who insisted that Moab had been obliterated by nuclear terrorism twelve years ago. From which it followed that anyone claiming to actually live there was a troll, a crisis actor in the pay of, or a sad dupe in thrall to, global conspirators trying to foist a monstrous denial of the truth on decent folk. In recognition of, and indignation over, which they had passed a law ordering the state licensing bureau to stop accepting motor vehicle paperwork from Moab. Unable to register vehicles in Utah, the people of Moab had begun printing their own plates, which had actually become a status symbol and desirable swag item in faraway places and produced revenue for the town until being buried under knockoffs. Anyway, the owner of this sport-ute lived in Moab.

They got out of the car, stretched, toddled around on stiff legs, made use of a portable toilet. Sophia approached the front door of the main building and heard it being buzzed open.

“Welcome to the Nest of Lies!” said the sole occupant, a woman in her—forties? No, probably mid-to-late thirties and simply not interested in any of the available technologies around hair, attire, skin, and makeup that might cause her to look younger. She had a short haircut that she might have done herself. She wore glasses of the old school, which is to say that they were nothing more than corrective lenses. Through them, she was reading a novel printed on paper.

“Thanks,” Sophia said.

“Is it your intention to keep driving south into town?”

“You mean Moab? Yes.”

“Then you know it exists.”

“Yeah, I’ve actually been there a few times.”

“Did you drive in or fly in, those times?”

“Flew.”