A nice thing about being a cognitive psychologist was that you could skip the questions that people typically asked in difficult situations—especially all the versions of 'How could I be so stupid?' Thomas knew exactly how: he was human, and humans were particularly horrible when it came to esteem-related beliefs. The tendency to believe flattering claims—that one pretty much knew everything they needed to know, that one was generally more intelligent than others, more moral, more skilled, and so on—was universal.

Thomas had never suspected Neil because he'd always thought he had one up on him. Everyone thought they had one up on everyone else, and they tended to get freaked when things seemed otherwise. As much as he loved Neil, Thomas had always felt sorry for him—sorry! Neil had seemed hapless with his misplaced self-confidence, his narrow focus on career, his inability to grow up. Like everyone else, Thomas had made himself into a walking, talking yardstick of what was right and true, and Neil, poor Neil, just didn't measure up.

What a fucking joke.

Peekskill slipped past the windows, a tubular panorama of tar and concrete, franchise signs like flyswatters against the sky. A wild urge to scream kicked through Thomas. This was crazy, throwing himself into the maelstrom like this. He couldn't blink without seeing Cynthia Powski—or even worse, Peter Halasz and Bobbie Sawyer. What did you do when the world became unhinged? What did any sensible person do? You retreated, you hunkered down where you were safe—home— with those few souls you knew you could depend on, and who depended on you.

What was he doing here, anyway? Chasing a skirt? Was it as crass as that?

As stupid?

'Helloooo?' Sam was saying. 'Umm, professor?'

Thomas cleared his throat, ran a hand across his face. He studied her profile for what seemed a long, frozen heartbeat. Her wide blue eyes regarded the road, flat with concern. In the sunlight, wisps of hair glowed like fiberoptic filaments over her slightly upturned nose.

Thomas breathed. She smelled like cherries.

'Sorry, agent.'

I should've stayed with the kids.

'I'm afraid I need to pick your brain a bit more,' Sam said, staring at the sunny terrain before them. The satellite radio was turned low. A talk-show voice fluttered over the ambient sounds of the road: someone talking about the Chinese economic meltdown.

'… self-regulating systems require transparency and flexibility.'

'You mean democracy.'

'Well… maybe before the information technolog—'

Thomas idly watched an Exxon-Mobil station slide past, as bright and shiny as a child's toy beneath a dark crowd of conifers. Rather than replying, he found himself thinking about fossil fuels, dinosaurs, then archeologists tramping through the Gobi dust.

'Feel like some Fritos?' Sam asked in the wake of his silence. She fished a small, crackling bag from her oversized purse, dangled it like he was a sulky ten-year-old.

Good old Fritos.