About a mile ahead was the turnoff. The chicken truck was about thirty feet ahead.

I regarded Alissa, now playing with a gold and amethyst necklace. Her mother had given it to her on her seventeenth birthday, more expensive than the family could afford but an unspoken consolation prize for the absence of an invitation to the prom. People tend to share quite a lot with those who are saving their lives.

My phone buzzed. “Yes?” I asked my protégé.

“The subject’s moved up a bit. About two hundred yards behind the truck.”

“We’re almost there,” I said. “Let’s go.”

I passed the poultry truck quickly and pulled in behind the decoy-a tight fit. It was driven by a man from our organization; the passenger was an FBI agent who resembled Alissa. There’d been some fun in the office when we picked somebody to play the role of me. I have a round head and ears that protrude a fraction of an inch more than I would like. I’ve got wiry red hair and I’m not tall. So in the office they apparently spent an hour or two in an impromptu contest to find the most elf-like officer to impersonate me.

“Status?” I asked into the phone.

“He’s changed lanes and is accelerating a little.”

He wouldn’t like not seeing me, I reflected.

I heard, “Hold on… hold on.”

I would remember to tell my protégé to mind the unnecessary verbal filler; while the words were scrambled by our phones, the fact there’d been a transmission could be detected. He’d learn the lesson fast and retain it.