Caius
I made the drive in nine hours and forty minutes, which is a record, and the only reason I know the number is that rage is excellent at mathematics.
Zephyr's summons had reached Ashwood at noon, four lines in that blunt block hand of his. Rogue probe at the north net. Professional. They carried her photograph. Come. Darius read it over my shoulder, went the color of old snow, and we were both in the truck before Berta's southern equivalent could pack us so much as a sandwich.
Her photograph. I chewed on those two words for four hundred miles. Some badlands stranger had crossed half the map with Wren's laughing face folded against his chest like a soldier's orders, and I had been eleven hours north the whole time, checking border nets, telling myself the distance was sensible. Tell
