I started to object, but then saw the wisdom in her demand. There was no way I could use my own credit cards. I handed her my wallet. “I’ve already gotten rid of any phones that could be connected to me.”

She went about her business efficiently. After removing all my credit and debit cards, she put one in: “That’s your debit card,” she explained. “The code is all sevens.” It had been issued to Randy Yellin, and there was $250 on it. “Use it when you need to, but whatever’s left when you get to Canada, we need back.” She pulled off my E-ZPass and replaced it with a new one from her backpack, dropping the old one into a foil pocket. Then she leaned back and told me, “Okay, let’s get this show on the road.”

Google guided us out of Washington. As we headed north, I glanced one last time in my rearview mirror. Storm clouds the color of a dense ocean fog were rolling in, dull and lifeless, swallowing the remainder of the blue sky. The Washington Monument stood against it like a sharpened pencil poised to write on a slate ceiling. I took one deep breath, filled my cheeks, and exhaled slowly, then studied the road in front of me. But for just an instant my memory flashed a glimpse of Reagan’s “shining city on a hill,” when America was still a beacon.

I didn’t see the address she’d keyed in, but wherever we were going, it would take us three hours and twelve minutes to get there. That’s if we were lucky. I assumed Google hadn’t factored in military roadblocks, which would make the trip longer. Like, possibly, the rest of my life.

I had a vague idea of the route we were going to take. Years earlier I’d shipped out from the Air Reserve Station at Niagara Falls for a mission that officially never happened. I’d driven up there from Bragg. I’d taken the little bit longer route, making it a pleasant drive through a lot of bucolic countryside. It got me away from the noise of the cities, serving as a sort of refresher course in real America.

We stopped briefly in the secluded parking lot behind a Kohl’s in Middle River, Maryland, where she swapped my D.C. plates for a New York set and pasted small stick-on decals reading Dr. Watson’s Medical Devices on both sides of Van. That was pretty impressive; someone had been doing some preparation. “I’ll be right back,” she said and disappeared around a corner. I guessed she was using the restroom. She returned in a few minutes. “Let’s go,” she said, slamming the door. “C’mon.”

I was curious. “What’d you do?”

She held up a $10 bill. “I sold your E-ZPass to a trucker. C’mon, let’s go.”

Now that was pretty impressive. “You really think all this is necessary?”

“Who knows?” She shrugged. “We’re just making it up as we go along.” She looked at me and smiled for the first time. “Welcome to New America.”