“They don’t come to meetings. It’s too dangerous. Even if you were seen here, Carol, that could cause some trouble. So be careful. We don’t want it to get out that there are people in the CNS that sympathize with our cause. Who respect our mute brothers and sisters enough to keep them from being tortured. People who believe in justice.”

“Wow, that’s really great. Really great. Maybe I could help them.”

“With what?”

“With, you know, whatever it is that they’re doing. The strategy. The move. Disruption.”

“Not a good idea. You’re new. Just keep coming to meetings. Besides, we’re in serious down-low mode. We recently pulled off something big. Took a lot of planning. And there’s still no heat coming our way.”

“Is it something we would have heard of?”

“Why?”

“Just wondering.”

“Just keep coming to meetings. With your enthusiasm, I’m sure we can find a use for you. So I’ll see you next week?”

“We’ll be back.”

THURSDAY

Kierk wakes up and a murder of books slide off him, one from his stomach, another from the crook of his arm, and a third which had lain clasping his lower leg like a giant insect. They fall to the floor in successive thwacks, lying spine-broken and covers upturned—a book detailing the derivation of the laws of physics from Fisher Information, poems by e. e. cummings, and Philosophical Investigations by Wittgenstein. The noises shock Kierk fully awake and he sits up on the edge of his bed, groggily closing their covers with a toe. Stretching and standing Kierk yawns and yaws his way to the bathroom, on the way shuffling and kicking the clothes he had left lying on the floor from yesterday, then, having compiled them in a clump, picks them up and pulls them on, hopping one leg at a time to get his pants on.