Route: he has a downloaded map from the forums on his main device, a dead lattice of the interstates from old satellite imagery. But it's not like there's been a lot of new development out here since then. The 'rental' that he'll never return has four wheel drive. He can do this.

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He lies on a bottom bunk with the bag under his knees and does the arithmetic properly, on paper, for the first time. Money: countable, and he counts it. The roll from Liang, the belt, the small bills from the stipend he hadn't touched. Enough for three weeks of the Glass or eleven days of moving.

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The woman who runs the house moves between the two rooms like she's treading a minefield, putting out a second bowl of something nobody asked for, laughing a beat too early at things, and Milo, who knows what fear looks like on a person now, goes upstairs and out of it.

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There's a conversation about a band that has the tone and content of two young guys amiably shooting the shit, and the cadence and body language of a hostage negotiation. The air has an edge you could shave with. Somebody's feed is showing the news with the sound off.

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So there is an elaborate politeness, a lending of bottle openers, showy displays of relaxation and being unbothered that convince no one, including the people putting them on. No one told their command they would be coming here. No one wants to be the reason a senior NCO yells are everyone.

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