I think even Cher was surprised when Jenny answered after three rings. Her heavy breathing and the background noise made it obvious she was moving in a crowd. “It’s crazy here,” she told me. “I haven’t had a second. Are you okay?” There was a wisp of fear in her voice.

“I’m good. They picked up Howie. Karen’s been trying to call you. You think Martha can do something?”

“Excuse me,” she said to somebody. Then she was back. “Oh god, no. Not Howie. Yeah, I’ll call Karen. But nobody knows what any of this means yet. There’re all these people carrying guns walking around. We’re on our way over to the Capitol for a special session. Wrightman wants some kind of Conscience of Congress resolution supporting him.”

Fuckers. Of course they would. It was a loyalty test. A way of rooting out the opposition. “What’s she going to do?” I asked. Then before Jenny could respond, I said firmly, “Tell her she has to vote for it.” This wasn’t the place to make a stand.

Jenny laughed at the thought. “Right. I’m going to tell Martha what to do. Not in this world. Look, sweetheart, I’m sorry, but I have to go. Where will you be later?”

Where was I going to be later? I had no answer to that question. “Home, I guess,” I said. Then added, “I guess.”

I stuffed as much as possible in my backpack and Mighty Chair’s various pockets and carry bags, including my burner phones, tapes, and the original materials Brain had given me. Using my fingernail to scrape away the tape, I lifted my challenge coin, tapped it twice on the desk—once for my fellows and once for those who didn’t make it home—and dropped it in my breast pocket. I wondered if I should take the time to erase the data and emails from my computer, then smiled at the thought. By now they had all the information they needed. But just in case, I picked up the stapler and finally put it to use, slamming it as hard as I could into my computer’s hard drive—three times, four, five, slamming it again and again, until the whole side of the tower was caved in.

There were still two people in the office, cleaning up and closing down, when I was ready to leave. I wished them well and meant it, then picked up my cowbell and rang it one last time, slowly and mournfully. I put it in my backpack and left. I didn’t look back.

It was still early afternoon, but the building was late-night quiet. No one was waiting at the elevator bank. I reached out to press the call button, then stopped; I left my index finger hanging in midair as I thought about it. In this new world it made sense to pause and consider the possible consequences before taking even the most ordinary action. My paranoia kicked in.

In that instant, Rollie 3.0 was born. It was as if my brain suddenly kicked into a new gear.