“That’s what your friend did here.” He tapped the envelope. “Whoever it was created their own measuring system. It shouldn’t work, but it does. I ran a whole bunch of challenges, I ran it against other samples, I changed a few things and ran it again, but it makes sense.” He brushed his hand through his long hair, and as he continued, he began nodding his head, reminding me of one of those perfectly balanced wooden birds that peck into a trough with the pull of a string. “I’d say both of these codes probably were written by the same person. I can’t say it’s unique the way a forensic examiner can, not without running it against a few hundred million samples, but if I had to testify, I’d say, ‘Yeah, odds are pretty good that these came from the same place.’”

He handed the envelope to me. “I never saw this, right?”

I wasn’t sure if that was for my protection or his. But the answer was the same. I slid it under my seat. “I owe you, Hack. For everything.”

Wilson rattled a supportive fist. He knew where I was coming from, and more important, he knew who was coming for me. “Gather no moss, my friend,” he said, turning away. He slung a towel over his shoulder and headed toward the gym.

There was an expression we used in Goat Country when we had to fix or correct an error: we would try to unfuck it. What I was trying to accomplish was maybe the single greatest unfuck in history. I was sitting on the story of the century. Literally, I mean, sitting on it. Evidence that the government of the United States had cyjacked Flight 342 would cause a political earthquake. It was impossible to guess who might be left standing when the ground settled. Once again, the question was what to do with it? The Trumpazines had destroyed the lines between truth and complete right-wing bullshit with the creation of “fake news.” If I posted it online, Wrightman would flood the media with experts who would ridicule the concept, laughingly deride it as fake news, muddying the waters enough to dilute its impact. For this to be taken seriously, it had to be vetted, approved, and finally released by a universally respected entity. A source that could not be doubted.

That pretty much narrowed it down to Oprah or the Canadian government. I had to deal with reality: I couldn’t get to Oprah. Actually, the Canadian government made sense on so many levels. The rifts between America and Canada caused by Trump had been stitched, but those wounds hadn’t completely healed. All I had to do was put this evidence in the hands of the proper Canadian government official.

O Canada, here I come! Getting there would be difficult, especially with the new restrictions, but not impossible. The administration had no idea this evidence even existed, much less that I had it in my possession. If they were aware of it, they would have to do pretty much everything possible to prevent me from getting over the border. But I wasn’t overly concerned; I couldn’t think of any way they could find out about it. All I was to them was another name on an official list. Just another runner.