A thick cloud of perfume accompanies her. Her cheeks are bright with blush, and her mouth is a red bloom of lipstick. “How are y’all doing?” she says with the brightness of a country star taking the stage and adjusting the mic.

“Doing good.” He points up the road. “Except that I need to get through.”

“You came all this way, and here we are gumming up the traffic.” Her mouth bends into an exaggerated frown. “That’s so frustrating, isn’t it? But I’m sure you understand.”

“Not really, no,” Jack says and puts his hand on the gearshift like a threat. “I was told to come up here. It is my job to come up here.”

“Any chance you have the wrong address?”

He almost argues with her further, but given the uncertainty of his mind lately, he might as well double-check. Maybe he saw the wrong location in the same way that he saw his daughter seated beside him. “It’s right here.” He digs into his backpack and rifles through it and comes away with nothing but a pair of Gore-Tex gloves, a water bottle, some topographic maps. “Or not. Must have left the call sheet at home.”

“Sometimes our eyes deceive us.”

“I’m ninety-nine percent sure.”

“Be that as it may. As my colleague Agent Peaches already explained, the road is closed.”

“Agent Peaches?”

“Yes,” Peaches says and hurries over to join them. “Hello. Hi. That’s me. Isaac.”

“And I’m Annabelle Ricketts.”

“What agency are you with?” Jack says.

Peaches looks to Ricketts as if for approval, and she nods. He digs into his back pocket and pulls out a badge that reads DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE.

“DOD? I don’t understand. Why would—”

“I’m so sorry,” Peaches says in an apologetic voice. “But that’s classified.”

“We wish we could tell you,” Ricketts says, and her smile widens to show all of her teeth, “but we’re a bunch of boring old rule followers.”

“I—” Some movement catches Jack’s eye and he looks ahead to see several figures in hazmat suits emerging from the fog. They stop thirty feet away, silent and watchful. The clear plastic masks reflect the white whirl of the fog, making them appear as if they are filled with weather.

“I do apologize about the confusion,” Ricketts says. “I can tell you’re ready to punch the steering wheel and yell the S-word!”

“I guess.”

“I hope the rest of your day turns out to be something special to make up for this frustration.”