I walked slowly around the living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, and bath. Everything looked normal, but I wasn’t exactly the best judge. I drifted into my dad’s study and sat down at his desk. Everything on the desk top was in perfect order. I opened a drawer and glanced at some electronic accessories, neatly arranged. I opened another and pulled out a disheveled stack of papers. I wasn’t sure what surprised me more, the papers or the disarray. Dad never kept things that way. I flipped through them. None seemed particularly important.

I looked in the bottom drawer. A bowl. Dad always ate popcorn at his desk. An old model electronic writing pad. I opened it. It was dusty—probably hadn’t been used in years. I started to close the pad, then noticed that something had been tucked inside the cover pocket. I pulled out an old-style digital storage device. No one had used these for two decades.

I glanced toward the front of the house. The officer had momentarily gone into virtual reality.

I slipped the device into my pocket.

2

NINE DAYS LATER

Abigail Caldwell’s eyes blinked open. Painfully she lifted her head off the wood bottom of the dugout canoe and glanced at the sun shining between the endless colonnades of trees overhanging both sides of the river.

Early afternoon. I’m heading east.

She sat erect and looked at the jungle on both sides, then at the bends in the river fore and aft. Nothing was familiar. She reached for her oar and began to row, the handcrafted paddle cutting swiftly through the water. Her arms and shoulders felt stiff. She focused on the mechanics of her stroke. Back straight. Arms relaxed.

Mosquitoes, stirred by her awakening, returned. Swatting them occupied her arms full-time, bringing her rowing to a halt—a luxury she couldn’t afford. She let the mosquitoes feed.

She was so hungry and thirsty. She hadn’t eaten in two days, had no time to stop and forage for food, and didn’t want to risk venturing alone into unfamiliar jungle. She slid her hand over the side of the canoe, cupped some brown water, and drank. It was rancid, but the liquid felt welcome on her tongue and her lips.

At least she had slept. Prior to leaving in the canoe, she hadn’t slept for two nights. She had been too much in demand, tending the sick. Her body craved more sleep now. She could feel the heaviness in her head and muscles, but she couldn’t indulge it. She had to keep going.

The sun drifted downward. Her canoe traversed an endless series of switchback curves—at this moment east, at this one west. She pressed to push the oar through the water at a consistent pace. She noticed her posture failing and straightened. Ten minutes later she straightened again. Finally she resigned herself to a permanent, aching slouch.