“I don’t want to walk,” said Afa from the other side of the room, fiddling with his portable screen. Kira didn’t even know he’d been listening.

“You’ll do fine,” she said, but Samm shook his head.

“I don’t know if he will. I think he’s weaker now than when we started the trip.”

“If he can’t handle the walk there, he won’t be able to handle the walk back home,” said Kira. “We leave the horses somewhere safe, and pick them up on the way back.”

Heron examined the map, tracing the route with her finger. “We go out here and get straight on 90; it’s a toll road, but I’ve got a few quarters. That links up here, to 94, and goes right into the heart of downtown. We get off on this big interchange here, and it’s a straight shot across to ParaGen, maybe only a mile of surface streets.” It was hard to tell on the map what kinds of buildings lay along the route, since it was intended for tourists and business travelers; a few key hotels and convention centers were called out, and a handful of famous local restaurants, but nothing that looked convenient to their path. Finally Heron zeroed in on a building shaped like a lopsided circle, just off the highway. “This says ‘Wrigley Field.’ That’s a baseball stadium. There’ll be an off-ramp from the highway, and plenty of places to pen the horses in—they’ll have food, and they’ll be contained and protected.”

Kira studied it, then nodded. “I suppose it’s our best bet, and if things don’t go as planned, we can adapt on the road. Let’s get some sleep, and head out at first light.”

The airport had several restaurants, and in the back kitchens they were able to scrounge together several cans of sealed food—mostly bulk-size cans of fruit, but one place had a rack of canned chicken, and a sagging Mexican restaurant had some gallon cans of refried beans and cheese sauce. Most of the fruit had turned, and the beans smelled just suspicious enough that they decided not to risk it, but the chicken and cheese made for a tasty if slightly messy meal. They started a fire in a metal garbage can and warmed it up as best they could, serving it on foam trays—so well-preserved they looked like new—and eating with plastic forks from a bag in the back of an old sandwich shop. Afa ignored them, eyes glued to his screen, eating only when Kira placed the food directly in front of his face. He was mumbling about security codes, and they left him to his work.