My dirty little secret is that while I was in hospital I realized that I could give up. I've got Sam. I've got a job that has the potential to be as interesting as I want it to be. I can settle down and be happy here for a while, even though the amenities are primitive and some of the neighbors are not to my taste. Even dictatorships need to provide the vast majority of their citizens with a comfortable everyday life. I don't have to keep fighting, and if I give up the struggle for a while, they'll leave me alone. I can always go back to it later. Nobody will scream if I stop, except maybe Sam, and he'll adapt to the new me eventually.

All of which is great in theory, but it doesn't help when I'm crying myself to sleep, alone.

16. Suspense

THE next day is Friday. I wake up late, and by the time I get downstairs, Sam has already gone to work. I feel drained, enervated by the aftereffects of my infection and the stupid climbing attempt, so I don't do much. I end up spending most of the day shuttling between the bedroom and the kitchen, catching up on my reading and drinking cups of weak tea. When Sam comes home—really late, and he's already eaten at the steak diner in town and had a glass or three of wine—I demand to know where he's been, and he clams up. Neither of us wants to back down, so we end up not talking.

On Saturday I come downstairs in time to find him putting the lawn mower away. "You'll need to tidy up in the garage," he says by way of greeting.

"Why?" I ask.

"I need to stash some stuff."

"Uh-huh. What stuff?"

"I'm going out. See you later."

He means it—ten minutes after that he's gone, off in a taxi to who knows where. And it's our most significant communication in two days.

I kick myself for being stupid. Stupid is the watchword of the day. So I go into the garage and look for stuff to throw out. It's a scrapyard of unfinished projects, but I think the welding gear can go, and the half-finished crossbow, and most of the other junk I've been tinkering with under the mistaken idea that what I need to escape from is where I am, rather than who I am. Some bits are missing anyway; I guess Sam's already made a start on clearing it out to make room for his golf clubs or whatever. So I heap my stuff in one corner and pull a tarpaulin over it. Out of sight, out of mind, out of garage, that's what I say.

Back inside, I try to watch some TV, but it's inane and slow, not to mention barely comprehensible. Bright blurry lights on a low-resolution screen with a curving front, slow-moving and tedious, with plots that don't make sense because they rely on shared knowledge that I just don't have. I'm steeling myself to turn it off and face the boredom alone when the telephone rings.

"Reeve?"

"Hi? Who—Janis! How are you?" I clutch the handset like a drowning woman.

"Okay, Reeve, listen, do you have anything on today?"

"No, no I don't think so—why?"

"I'm meeting a couple of friends in town this afternoon to try out a new cafe near the waterfront that's just appeared. I was wondering if you'd like to come and join us? If you're well enough, that is."

"I'm"—I pause—"supposed to take it easy for a few days. That's what Dr. Hanta said." Let her chew on that. "Is there a problem with work?"

"Not so you'd notice." Janis sounds dismissive. "I'm catching up on my reading, to tell the truth. Anyway, I got the note from the hospital. Don't worry on my part."

"Oh, okay then. As long as I'm not going to have to run anywhere. How do I get to this place?"

"Just ask a taxi to take you to the Village Cafe. I'll be there around two. I was thinking we could try out the cafe and maybe chat."

I am getting an itchy feeling that Janis isn't telling me everything, but the shape of what she's not telling me is coming through clearly enough. I shiver a bit. Do I really want to get involved? Probably not—but they'll start talking if I don't, I think. Besides, if they're planning something stupidly dangerous, I owe it to Dr. Hanta to talk them out of it, I suppose. I glance at the TV set. "All right. Be seeing you."

It's already one o'clock, so I change into a smarter outfit and call a taxi to the Village Cafe. I've no idea what friends Janis might have in mind, but I don't think she'd be tasteless enough to invite Jen along. Beyond that, I don't want to risk making a bad impression. Appearances count if you're trying to up your score, and other people pay attention to that kind of thing. And I don't expect Janis would be organizing anything like this if it wasn't important.

It's a wonderful day, the sky a deep blue and a warm breeze blowing. Janis is right about one thing—I don't remember ever seeing this neighborhood before. The taxi cruises between rows of clapboard-fronted houses with white picket fences and mercilessly laundered grass aprons in front of them, then hangs a left around a taller brick building and drives along a tree-lined downhill boulevard with oddly shaped buildings to either side. There are other taxis about, and people! We drive past a couple out for a stroll along the sidewalk. I thought Sam and I were the only folks who did that. Who am I missing?

The taxi stops just before a cul-de-sac where a semicircle of awnings shield white tables and outdoor furniture from the sky. A stone fountain burbles wetly by the roadside. "Village Cafe," recites the driver. "Village Cafe. Your credit score has been debited." Blue numerals float out of the corner of my left eye as I open the door and step out. There are people sitting at the tables—one of them waves. It's Janis. She's looking a lot better than the last time I saw her: She's smiling, for one thing. I walk over.

"Janis, hi." I recognize Tammy sitting next to her but don't know what to say. "Hello everybody?"

"Reeve, hi! This is Tammy, and here's Elaine—"

"El," El mumbles.

"And this is Bernice. Have a chair? We were just trying to work out what to order. Would you like anything?"

I sit down and see printed polymer sheet menus sitting in front of each chair. I try to focus on them, just as a box with a grille on it abovethe door to the cafe crackles and begins to shout: "Good afternoon! It's another beautiful day . . ."

"I think I'll have a gin and tonic," I say.

"Your attention please, here are two announcements," continues the box. "Ice cream is now on sale for your enjoyment. The flavor of the day is truffle and banana. Here is a warning. There is a possibility of light showers later in the day. Thank you for your attention."

Tammy pulls a face. "It's been doing that every ten minutes since we arrived. I wish it'd shut up."

"I asked at the counter," Janis says apologetically. "They say they can't shut it off—it's everywhere in this sector."

"Yes? What is this sector, anyway? I don't remember it." I bury my nose in the menu immediately in case I've just made a faux pas.

"I'm not sure. It appeared yesterday, so I thought we should go look at it."

"Consider it looked at," says Bernice. Who is dark and slightly plump and wears a perpetual expression of mild disgust: I think I've seen her at Church, but that's about it. "Mine's a mango lassi."

A zombie, male, wearing a dark suit and a long, white apron, shuffles out of the cafe. "Are you ready to order?" he asks in a high, nasal voice.

"Yes, please." Janis rattles off a list of drinks, and the waitron retreats indoors again. The drinks are mostly alcohol-free: I seem to be one of the odd ones out. Oops , I think. "Tammy and El and I have been meeting up every Saturday for the past few weeks," she adds in my direction. "We tell our husbands we're a sewing circle. It's a good excuse to gossip and drink, and none of them would know a real sewing circle if one bit him on the toe, so . . ."