“Jean!” Morgan is running toward us, arms out, frantic. The soldier behind him takes measured strides, arms relaxed—except for the slight crook at the left elbow and the splayed hand poised too close to his service weapon. He’s a picture of military discipline. It’s a good thing for Morgan he wasn’t around during the draft era. The kid would probably die in his first foxhole. If, that is, his platoon didn’t get to him first.

Lorenzo’s envelope goes under my car seat, as if someone else’s hand is obeying instructions from a foreign brain. I don’t think about it, only reach down automatically, sliding the evidence out of sight before Morgan, now at my window, catches me with the passport of Lorenzo’s dead wife. I don’t know what the penalty is for carrying forged identification, and I’m not at all eager to find out.

The serum, unfortunately, has to stay where it is for a while longer.

“We need you back inside,” Morgan says.

“Why?” I say, starting the Honda’s engine and faking ignorance. “If I forgot something, I’ll get it tomorrow. I haven’t seen my kids all weekend.” Only then does it occur to me why I’m wanted back inside. The project’s over, and so is my reprieve from silence.

Morgan reaches into my window with one small pink hand. At the same time, Lorenzo steps in between us. “Let her go,” Lorenzo says.

The soldier hasn’t moved, except to draw his service weapon. I know shit about guns, but I know enough to understand where this could end up if I don’t take some control. Fast.

“Enzo. You need to leave,” I say, seeing in his eyes that he’s got zero intention of moving from his position between the steadiness of that steel barrel and my open window. He proves my point.

“Neither of you is leaving,” Morgan says.

The clock on my dashboard takes an eternity to turn from one thirty-six to one thirty-seven.

“Okay.” I take my hands off the steering wheel. “Okay. I’m turning the car off.” With my left hand still in the air, I kill the Honda’s engine with my right. “Okay? Can I get out now?”

Morgan, who has squirmed as far from the line of fire as possible, signals to the soldier, and the gun moves down slightly. It does not go back into its holster as I open the car door.

Morgan leads our four-person parade across the parking lot. I take little comfort in knowing Lorenzo is a few paces behind me, a vulnerable shield between several rounds of ammunition and my own body. We’re waved through the security checkpoint and herded into an elevator. This time, instead of hitting the button for the basement floor, Morgan inserts his key card and presses SB. Sub-basement.