The day before, he had checked out possible routes on Google Maps. The trip, according to Google, was five minutes by car, half an hour on foot. Kyle was betting the thirty minutes was a bit optimistic, given that he was going to have to steer clear of roads and sidewalks. He didn’t want to be run down by a crazy Arrival. Didn’t want to be hoisted by his own petard, as the saying went.

What the fuck IS a petard, anyway? Kyle wondered.

So he’d be cutting through yards, taking alleys. He’d cross streets when he had to, but he’d be quick about it. After relishing, for a few extra moments, the catastrophe under way at the community center, Kyle cut across a field behind the building, then worked his way through a wooded area that ran alongside the road.

He stepped out from the copse of trees and scanned the road in both directions. No Arrivals to be seen. They were all doing battle with the fire engine and the ambulance. He sprinted to the other side of the road and figured, at least for the time being, it was safe to follow it. If a vehicle came into view, he’d take cover.

He still had, under his clothing, the fake padding that made him look a good fifty pounds heavier. Once he’d started running, he was feeling it get in the way of his movements, and on top of that, it was hot. He wanted to duck in between a couple of houses, remove his sport jacket, strip off his shirt, rip off the padding, and stuff it into a trash can somewhere. But he was worried he might still be seen, and his Ben Stapleton identity needed to be preserved.

A purple Arrival—it looked like a grape exposed to massive doses of radiation—was approaching, most likely heading for the community center. Reinforcements, Kyle guessed. He ran between some houses and crouched behind a shrub and watched the car pass. Instead of heading back to the road, he checked the map app on his phone and determined it made sense to keep cutting between houses to reach the rendezvous point.

He worked his way through a few backyards, ducking through swing sets, navigating his way around decks covered with wicker furniture, crawling over several rows of low, white picket fences.

At one point, a woman shouted out a window, “What are you doing out there, mister?”

He shouted back, “Getting away from those damn cars! Stay inside!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” she asked.

She’d know soon enough.

In a little over twenty minutes, he was at the town center. Any other day, it would have been a lovely, tranquil place to spend some time, do some shopping, stop and have a drink.