Thomas sighed, disappointed by this sudden return to seriousness. 'We're in way over our heads here, Sam. Who the fuck knows what Neil's up to? He was NSA, for Chrissakes, a neuroscientific spook, rewiring brains in the name of National Security. That's crazy enough…' They were sailing past another eighteen-wheeler, this one with lights proclaiming JESUS SAVES like a Christmas decoration. He resisted a strange compulsion to gaze into the roaring wheels once again. 'Now? He's off the map altogether, charting territory we probably can't even imagine.'

'Like an explorer,' Sam said, hitting the blinker.

They stopped at a Flying-J for fuel and dinner shortly afterward. 'My Dad was a trucker,' Sam explained as they pulled onto the exit ramp. 'Besides, I'm addicted to Krispy Kremes.' Once inside, Sam succumbed to the call of yet another donation box, this one for some obscure environmental coalition. Some celebrity whose name Thomas couldn't remember gazed up from the cardboard planes, the money-slot in the center of his forehead.

'I gotta ask…' he said as they trolled for a table. 'What's with all the impulse charity?'

She shrugged, seemed to make a point of avoiding his gaze. 'When you have a job like mine, mistakes have consequences.'

Something in her tone warned him not to pursue the matter.

They both spent thirty minutes or so on their palmtops, Thomas with Mia and the kids, who seemed to have fully recovered from the morning's mayhem, and Sam with Agent Atta, who seemed to be quite upset about Mackenzie turning into a dead end.

'I tried to blame you,' Sam said with an okay-that-wasn't-so-good grimace. 'But the boss isn't having any of it.'

His elbows on the lime-green tabletop, Thomas rubbed his temples. 'But it was my fault, wasn't it?'

Sam scowled. 'What do you mean?'

'I just, ah… assumed you thought it was my fault.'

'Mackenzie? Please. If the prick was stupid, I'd be inclined to assign blame—to me, not to you. But the fact is, he's smart, scary smart like you, and with people like that, it's either a total crapshoot or a foregone conclusion. Trust me.'

Thomas looked down to the tabletop, began counting crumbs. She was right. Mackenzie had been a foregone conclusion, almost as though the interview had been scripted. He was meeting his fears halfway, he realized, or 'negative scripting' as some therapists called it. He heard Sam sigh affectionately.

'Feeling down on ourselves, huh?'

Thomas smiled. 'No, thank you. I don't need any Fritos, Agent Logan.'

She regarded him with good-natured impatience. 'You're a good man, professor. A good man, and in a world that doesn't make any sense.'

His eyes actually burned. He blinked, made a point of not looking up.

'Call me Tom.'

'Okay,' she said, but reluctantly, as though the prospect frightened her.