Suddenly Bernard’s laughter filled his headphones. They were hiking, Klay realized. He heard the crunch of gravel, the swing of his pack, his breathing. On the recorder, he asked Bernard whether he thought the land was a living thing. “You don’t understand at all,” Bernard replied. He heard the scratch of rocks clicking together, his own rough voice saying, “It’s a long way down, brother.” He remembered that moment. Bernard had done a back flip off the cliff edge into a river three stories below. On the tape, Bernard called up to him inaudibly. Klay repeated his words for the recording: “Come. Celebrate the land.” The recording ended. Klay hadn’t jumped.

He removed his headphones and texted Bernard’s mother, asking about Goodson. Goodson had been roughed up, she responded, but he was safe. The Green Guardians had been disbanded. It was just Perseus Group rangers now, she wrote, “flying drones, rousting up villagers.”

He got more emails reminding him to set up his Twitter account. He was headed to the gym one afternoon when a rep from Development dropped by and reminded him about the fundraiser that night. She handed him a card with the names of three couples printed on it. “Chat with them. Make them feel welcome. Charlie Peterson is oil. The Merricks, too. Root is that Root. They’ve all been to Africa. They’ll love talking to you . . .”

It went on like that.

Meanwhile, each time he asked Porfle for a new assignment, Porfle would shrug and say he hadn’t heard anything. Klay tried to be patient, to follow PGM’s new procedures, but boredom and frustration were closing in on him. He did not do well bored. For the first time since he’d joined The Sovereign, he wondered if it might be time to move on.

One afternoon, desperate to get out, he decided to visit an animal shelter. His days “on the beach,” which is what the Perseus Group people called their unassigned hours, had him thinking he might get a dog. He would just be looking, he reminded himself as he hailed a cab. If he were actually going to get a dog, he wanted a Chesapeake Bay retriever.

Still, it wouldn’t hurt to look at the strays. Just the idea of getting a dog made him feel a little better. The taxi pulled away from the curb and a text appeared on his phone.

“Confession at 11,” it said.

It had been three months since he’d heard from Eady.

THE CONFESSION CLUB

Washington, DC