“Where do you want I should drop you?”

A sign flashed overhead as they crossed Baltimore city limits.

“Anywhere’s fine.”

“You from around here?”

“I guess I am.”

“Well,” the trucker said, “welcome home.”

Evan hopped out at the next gas station. He found a pay phone at the side, right between the bathrooms.

He called the only person left on the planet he could trust to deliver what he needed.

It rang three times before the gruff voice answered. “Crazy Daisy’s Flowers. Something for every occasion.”

Evan said, “I need a backpack cutting torch, an H&K MP5SD, a compressed-air grappling hook strong enough to take the weight of a jungle penetrator, and a skiff with two hundred-and-fifty-horsepower engines to meet me in Daytona Beach by tomorrow at noon. I’ll tell you a location. I don’t want to see any faces. Just the stuff waiting at a pier.”

There was a long pause.

“This,” Tommy Stojack said, “can be arranged.”

“Good.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah.” Evan smirked. “Advil.”

“You going full Somali pirate on me?”

“I assure you,” Evan said, “it’s for a good cause.”

“Good cause or not, you’re gonna have sticker shock. I have to work it cross-country. Plus, you know, discretion. I got a hook at Camp Blanding, he’s our people. Something like this, I can’t just use some clown-for-hire. After all, you never know who’s who in the zoo.”

“Just tell me the price. And I’ll pay it.”

Evan hung up.

Now, on to the boy.

He hauled up the tattered Yellow Pages dangling from a security cord and searched out the nearest cybercafé. There was one a few miles away—$4/hr! Terminals clean-wiped after every logout! We accept Bitcoin! Cabs were scarce, so he hoofed it, walking fast enough to stave off the cold. The chill crept into his shoulder, and he had to remind himself not to hunch to favor it. The tendon, muscles, and skin had to stretch in order to heal properly.

At last he stepped into the java-scented shop, peeled a hundred off the roll Jack had set aside for him, and requested a workstation and a universal phone charger. He plugged the RoamZone into a desktop outlet, fired up the computer, and ran a quick search.

Reverse-phone-number directories proliferated. He found a free one and keyed in the kid’s number. Sandwiched between various pop-up ads was the result:

No record of this number exists.

Evan stared at the screen, his discomfort growing.

One workstation over, two teenage girls laughed at a YouTube video, all gleaming white teeth and vanilla-scented hair spray.

Evan called up a second directory, keyed in the number again, and waited as the loading bar filled.

Number last used in 1996.

He stared at the screen, his stomach roiling. How the hell had the boy called him from a line that had been retired twenty years ago?