I TRIED TO stretch out in the back seat to catch a nap during the drive. I failed. After a night like tonight, I usually needed to pop at least two Melatonin capsules to get my brain to settle enough to let me sleep, but if I did that, I’d be too drowsy when we reached Deb’s house. Instead, I pulled out my smartphone to check my work email.

First up was a report from Charles Brice on the side effects of his new bionic eye. The man was going to kill himself one of these days. Fortunately, his latest “upgrade” had caused only minor migraines and occasional double vision, an afterimage that appeared to come from the book he’d used to create the eye.

I signed off on the report and brought up the next message, an order for the following month’s supply of animal feed. Reading through Vince’s meticulous line-item breakdown was almost as good as the Melatonin.

Unfortunately, the very next message burnt the fatigue from my thoughts. I jabbed the screen and dialed Charles.

“Tell Potts the answer is no,” I said as soon as he answered.

“I see you got my email.”

“To paraphrase my friend Helen, New Millennium is not DHS’s bitch. We’re not building weapons, we’re not giving them surveillance tech, and I’m sure as hell not letting them use the Gateway Project as a replacement for drone strikes.”

“I don’t like the idea either, but Gateway would be more precise,” he said. “It could reduce civilian casualties and eliminate a lot of bad people.”

“Charles, do you know how many high-ranking government officials consider us to be bad people?”

“Hey, I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”

“Since when did the devil need your help?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Nidhi twisted around and touched my knee. I bit back my retort. Charles had a gift for getting under my skin. I took a series of slow breaths. “Nothing. It’s been a long night. I’m probably not going to be back tomorrow morning.”

“I thought your niece was getting her leg fixed in the morning.”

“She is.” I closed my eyes.

“No wonder you’re worked up. What do you want me to tell Potts?”

Russell Potts was one of two civilians on New Millennium’s four-person Board of Directors. Fortunately, the other board members—Nicola Pallas and Thérèse St. Pierre from the Porters, along with Doctor Heather Neuman from the National Institutes of Health—had consistently voted down his efforts to turn our work toward offensive military magic. “What I want you to tell him . . .” I shook my head. “I’ll set up a meeting to talk with him next week.”

“He doesn’t like waiting.”