I didn’t interrupt her, occasionally tossing in a “Really?” or “Wow.” Apparently the resistance was a mildly warm bed of rumors. The latest rumor was that Homeland Security was compiling scores on everyone. “Like the Resistance Olympics,” she said. According to this story, watchers were reading and rating social media posts, 1 point meaning it had no interest to the government, 10 meaning it was highly critical of the government. An average over 7.5 got people moved to a more active watch list. “Finally,” she said with some pride, “I’m a ten!”

I smiled as noncommittally as possible.

We stopped for gas south of Pittsburgh. Laura paid in cash. When we were back on the road, she sent a coded text message to the stationmaster confirming the delivery was going to be on time. She was mildly perturbed when she didn’t receive a confirmation. “It happens,” she said, staring at her phone. She shrugged. “We’re all so new to this stuff.”

I nodded. No big deal. Growing pains. Working out the kinks in the system. Screwups were part of the process. But just in case, I began checking my mirrors more often.

On the highway, it was difficult to feel any change. The countryside was still beautiful, the farmlands still green, the red and silver silos framed against the Mediterranean blue sky. The only noticeable change were the military and militia vehicles that passed us regularly, most of them flying two or more American flags. Twenty miles closer she tried Pittsburgh again. Then she sat staring at her phone for a response that didn’t come. There was a hesitancy in her voice as she admitted, “I’m not sure what to do.” She told me the protocol: If she did not receive an acknowledgment, she was to assume the station had been compromised. “Mistakes happen,” she said hopefully. “That’s probably all this is. There’s a dozen reasons they didn’t get back to me.”

Paranoia, I adore ya! I wasn’t interested in the benefit of the doubt. “Do you know any of these people?”

“No.” I caught her biting her thumbnail, her shoulders hunched protectively over her phone, willing it to ring. “Let’s drive by there and see if anything’s going on.”

I pushed myself up, but I couldn’t get comfortable. WWBD? I was already working out a new agenda as we reached the city. Armed soldiers were standing guard in front of banks, churches, and public spaces, but not nearly as many as I’d seen in Washington. From what I could see, people seemed to be ignoring them. “Make this next right,” Laura said, pointing. “It looks like it’s a few blocks up. I’ll tell you when but don’t slow down.”

We approached an intersection. An MP was directing traffic with exaggerated verve. I was enjoying his performance until I saw that the traffic signal directly over his head seemed to be working fine. There was no reason for him to be there. My Special Ops spidey sense was sending me an alert. There wasn’t much I could do about it without drawing attention to Van. It was too late to turn off. As we drove past him, I made a point of casually looking away, as if I was checking traffic coming from the side street. The light was red, but the soldier whistled insistently and waved me through. Laura leaned forward. “Next block,” she said. As we drove past a pizza shop, she glanced casually inside. Then she pushed back into her seat and looked straight ahead. “Keep going!” she snapped, that pleasant voice gone. “Keep going.”