I buried my face behind my menu so she wouldn’t see me laughing. Here we were, right in the middle of our escape, and she was concerned about gluten. Midge paused before responding, staring at Laura as if she recognized her but couldn’t quite place her. Then as Midge pointed out the yellow starbursts that identified gluten-free choices, Jenny popped into my mind. Nice going, mind, I thought. You trying to tell me something? Maybe it was some kind of defense mechanism kicking in, maybe it was a test of my loyalty, but as attractive as Laura was at that moment, I desperately missed Jenny. I wanted to talk to her, tell her where I was and where I was going, but mostly I just wanted to hear her voice and know she was okay. That we were okay. The second I got across the border I was …

“Sir?” Midge was impatient, tapping her pencil. “What can I get you?”

I ordered. As we waited, we began planning the next few hours. She had not been assigned to take me to the border, that was supposed to be Pittsburgh’s job. “I don’t know anything about it,” she said. Then she put her hand on top of mine and said confidently, “We’ll just have to figure it out when we get there. There are a lot of navigators up there, and Mom’ll put us in touch with them.”

We talked about going west but decided the longer we stayed in the country the greater the chance we would be spotted. As there was no “best option” we agreed to go north and figure it out when we got closer. Considering the precautions we would be forced to take, there was no way of even guessing when we would reach the border. As my mother used to tell me, we’ll be there when we’re there. Whenever that was, we would wait until either morning or evening rush hour, or maybe a day or three or six, then slip across in the traffic. Just in case, though, she asked, “You have anything in there that might be a problem? Any pot? A gun?”

I coughed into my fist. A gun? Well, there’s a problem. But until we reached the border, there was no reason to dump it. “We’ll be fine,” I told her, waving off the question. Adjust and adapt; and when necessary, give ’em the old one-two.

Midge filled our water glasses. “Food’s coming,” she said pleasantly. “Kitchen’s just a little backed up.”

When she was gone, Laura leaned into the table and asked, “What about that whatever it is that I don’t know about? Is that something we need to worry about?”

“No, nothing.” I pointed to my forehead. “It’s here.” I could have pointed to my ass too, as I was sitting on it.

Ten minutes later we were still waiting for our meal when people started shifting in their seats to look at the TV sets. “Turn up the sound, Dusty,” a woman with a helmet of blond hair in one of the booths shouted to the counterman. Dusty gave her a serious look, an “I know what I’m doing” look, then reached up and did so. A somber President Wrightman was speaking from the Oval Office, a look of deep concern on his face. The chyron at the bottom of the screen, in bold letters large enough for me to read, stated ominously: LIVE FROM THE WHITE HOUSE: PRESIDENT TO ANNOUNCE EXECUTIONS.