Chapter 20: The Sovereign’s Chamber

The tension of Mount Rushmore didn’t leave us so much as undergo a phase change, solidifying into a cold, dense core of certainty as we drove west into Wyoming. The granite presidents had been a silent tribunal, but their judgment felt antique against the living geometry of our station wagon. The confrontation with the ranger had been a forge; we emerged tempered, our edges hardened. The silence in the car now was that of a crew after a successful maneuver.

I-90 stretched before us, a gray ribbon under the vast, indifferent sky. My adrenaline had bled away, leaving a bone-deep fatigue specific to my role, the weight of being the sole clothed one, the visible interface between our calibrated truth and the world’s screaming dissonance. My polo shirt felt like a lead apron, a costume from a play that had ended weeks ago. Every stare intercepted, every calculation made to position Ash as a living sculpture, every measured word offered to the park ranger, they were all transactions conducted in the exhausting currency of performed composure. I was spent.

So when Dad signaled and pulled off the highway near Gillette, steering into the sprawling reality of a major truck stop, a strange relief washed through me. The attached restaurant, “The Longhorn Grill,” was a monument to utility, its sign a buzzing tube of neon against the deepening twilight. It wasn’t quaint or challenging. It was real. In its gritty, transient normalcy, perhaps we could be just another strange group of travelers.

The inside was a cavern of cracked vinyl booths and yellowed Formica, the air thick with frying grease, stale coffee, and the faint tang of diesel. A cigarette machine glowed in the corner. The clientele was a democracy of weariness: sunburned families, RVers, and solitary truckers anchored to their stools. Tinny country music leaked from crusted speakers.

As we entered, the reaction was qualitatively different from Rushmore. Tired eyes glanced our way, registered the anomaly, the three nude young women, the collared girl guided by a clothed boy, and then, with a shrug that seemed to whisper seen weirder, slid away. It was indifference, not acceptance, but it was a balm. Privacy carved from public apathy.

The hostess, “Sharon,” didn’t falter. “How many?”
“Six,” Dad said.
She led us to a large, round table near a window, strategically distant from other diners.

We settled in with a surreal domesticity. Dad and Mom took two seats. Claire and Megan sat side-by-side, automatically reaching for paper napkins to place on their chairs, a gesture so mundane it sent a sharp pang through my chest. They smoothed the napkins and sat. Now, when Claire leaned forward to scrutinize her menu, the sight of her breasts against the table’s edge, the curve of her spine, was just data. A fact of geometry.
“Double patty. That’s overkill,” she said, pointing.
Megan glanced at the air conditioning vents. “The airflow is inefficient. We’re in a direct draft. Convective heat loss will be suboptimal.”
“It’s fine,” Claire murmured. “Don’t draw attention.”
It was breathtakingly, terrifyingly normal.

I helped Ash into the chair beside mine. She sat, posture preternaturally perfect, hands folded, until I gave her a menu. She held it without looking. I unfolded a napkin and placed it on her chair.

The waitress, “Darlene,” took our orders with robotic efficiency. I ordered for Ash: a plain baked potato, applesauce, and water. Darlene scribbled, her pen pausing only briefly at Ash’s silent presence.

It was in the lull after she departed that I saw them.
Two women walked toward our table with a purposeful, calm stride. My instinct was a fresh wave of defensive fatigue. Not here.
But Ash shifted beside me, the subtlest increase of pressure against my arm, a tiny inhalation. Her senses had flagged them first.

The woman in front was older, late fifties, with a sharp, intelligent face and severe silver-gray hair in a precise bob. She wore a tailored charcoal-gray pantsuit and carried a slim leather folio. Her eyes were locked on my father.
The woman beside her was younger, strikingly attractive, in a simple emerald green wrap dress. My eyes went immediately to her throat.
She wore a collar.
It wasn’t like Ash’s functional leather. It was a band of woven navy blue silk ribbon, fastened with a discreet silver clasp. It looked permanent.

They stopped at our table. The older woman’s gaze swept over us, showing no shock, only deep analytical interest. She was cataloging us.
Then, the younger woman moved.
Without a word or glance for permission, her hands went to the tie of her wrap dress. In one smooth, practiced motion, she loosened the sash, shrugged, and let the fabric fall. It pooled around her feet on the linoleum. She stood naked beside our table, clad only in her silk ribbon collar, pearl studs, and low-heeled pumps. Her body was poised, still, and utterly calm.

The air was vacuumed from my lungs. A trucker’s fork clattered onto his plate. A low murmur rippled out.
The older woman didn’t react. She cleared her throat, her voice clear and cultured.
“Good evening. My apologies for the intrusion. My name is Chelsey Waller. I am a civil rights attorney specializing in constitutional privacy and liberty cases.” Her cool gray eyes settled on my father. “We have been observing your family’s journey since late yesterday, beginning at Prairie Dog Town, through the Badlands, and culminating in the remarkable incident at Wall Drug last night.”