“Why this city?”

Sip, cup to tabletop. He didn’t answer.

“You were never specific in your locations. People wondered where Maire’s complex was. The only clue was the fact that the orbital gun rose from a body of water. Was it Seattle?”

“No.” He answered too quickly.

West nodded, looked away. Paul wondered what semantic thread he’d just uploaded to the Judith Mind-Essence.

Late afternoon crowd. Outside: rain. Nirvana on the jukebox. President Jennings on the link.

“It was always this same coffee house. Why?”

Paul shrugged.

“When did you first write it?”

He considered. “The first book. One of the last versions, the final scene. I wanted to give some form of closure to the novel, not just let the characters cut off without some acknowledgement of a positive future.”

“Ninety-eight? Ninety-nine?”

“Let’s say ninety-eight.”

A middle-aged man had come in since they’d arrived. He sat at the counter, spoke to the proprietress. She gave him a pack of smokes. Marlboro 100s.

“You know anyone here?”

Paul surveyed the crowd. “Simon. Maggie.” He stole a cursory glance of the woman behind the counter. “She looks familiar, but I can’t quite—”

“We pulled you out of Fourteen-Seven before—Well, it’s amazing what the mind allows you to forget.”

She rang up the bill for one of her customers. His girlfriend walked to stand next to him. There was a silver ring on one hand. The coffeehouse owner smiled, revealing one gunshot dimple.

you know…you do.

Paul blinked away the recognition before it could take hold in that stillness between the heart and memory.

“Who else will I meet before our business is done?”

West sipped. He took his coffee with one sugar. “Not all of the characters survived. Some were just too far away to rescue. Would have been impractical to rescue some of the others. We’re still tracking the major players. They’ll produce a more viable calculus.”