The tent door was pulled aside by a … a guy in a white uniform who opens the tent door. What a job description.

Inside, netting-covered windows let in light, and electric fans kept the warm air circulating. The floor was covered by Oriental rugs, overlapping so there were no gaps. Our feet sank into soft plush, and I almost sighed.

The doctor came into the “room” from behind a screened-off portion of the space and welcomed us with open arms. “Come, sit,” he said, once again looking fashionable and elegant. “You must be hungry. I can’t tell you how delighted I am to finally make your acquaintance. I’ve been following your history avidly.”

After glancing around, memorizing exits, I sat down on a leather stool beside a low table. Angel sat across from me, not next to me. I tried (unsuccessfully) not to put too much meaning into that.

“Following our history? Do you know Jeb Batchelder?” I asked.

He looked at me blankly. “Ah, no — no, I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure. Is he a friend of yours?”

“No.”

A servant came in with a silver tray piled high with food: pastries, a pitcher of fresh juice, sliced fruit, eggs, bacon! I thought of the mush the rest of the flock was eating, not to mention the mush that the entire refugee camp was faced with day after day, and tried (unsuccessfully) to feel guilty. “Please, help yourselves,” said Dr. G-H. “You probably require a great many calories, do you not?”

“I know I do.”

My head swiveled as Dylan came into the room. His dark honey hair was wet, and he looked clean and fresh, which put him two large steps ahead of Angel and me. I almost expected a photographer to leap through the tent flaps, telling Dylan to work it.

“Hello, Max, Angel,” Dylan said, sitting on another stool. “Wow, last night seemed like a dream. I couldn’t really believe that you existed. And now here you are. And I’m not alone.” His face was open and sincere, his expression as clear as his tanned skin. I felt my cheeks flush, no doubt from the first-class cup of joe I’d just gulped.

“Have some strawberries,” said the doctor, pushing a silver bowl toward me. He smiled. “There’s more where they came from, so don’t be shy.”

Not really something he needed to worry about, with us. I slathered butter onto a scone, piled orange marmalade on top of that, and took a bite so I wouldn’t have to say anything right away. But then I couldn’t stand the awkward silence.

“What lab are you from?” I asked Dylan abruptly, with my mouth half full. Miss Manners I am not.