Chapter 9

Sunday, December 14, 2014. 10:40 a.m. She awoke, groggy, disjointed, and confused. Where in God’s name was she? Whose bathroom was this? Why was she naked, balled up on the floor? Blinking, wiping saliva from her chin with the back of her hand, she pushed up into a sitting position. She was freezing cold, erupted all over in gooseflesh; the tile flooring had left her left side tattooed in X’s.

Slowly, her fragmented memory returned. “Nooo,” she moaned in protest. Pushing up, she made it back to the toilet seat, looked blearily at the half-drawn shower curtain. A test of the water proved it cold enough to snatch her hand back. Shaking it, she wondered how long she’d been out. She fumbled her phone off the sink, cursing the loss of nearly 2 hours.

“Rebecca, fuck! You are such an asshole!”

Rubbing viscously at her eyes and nose, she yanked back the shower curtain and killed the water. It got dark before 5 p.m., and unless she planned to sleep here tonight, her day was almost fucked. Angry, she kicked her shoes against the locked door and kicked one as it bounced back. “Bastard!” she screamed.

Her wrist ached, having laid on it badly. Grabbing her underwear off the back of the door, she donned them clumsily and then dressed, fuming at every inconvenience caused by her worthless left hand. At one point, she nearly lost control and slammed it down atop the sink. Just the act of making a fist made her gasp in agony. Why did God hate her so?

“I hate you, too!” she sobbed furiously. Unlocking and whipping open the door; she grabbed the Remington and fled.

-------//-------

Her first stop was CVS Pharmacy on 2nd Avenue. Half a dozen vehicles, one with an open driver’s side door, occupied spaces in the parking lot. Pulling alongside the curb, Rebecca killed the engine and gazed down the desolate avenue. The emptiness defied getting used to. Half a block down, a silver VW bug lay on its roof, capsized. Rebecca waited a moment, almost expecting it to attempt righting itself. Would it ever be righted, she wondered? Would the driver ever return? She climbed out, armed with the shotgun.

Store hours were posted at the entrance. Friday and Saturday nights the store remained open until 11:00 p.m.; fortunate, as it closed 2 hours earlier the remainder of the week. Approaching the doors, she triggered the sensor: the doors slid quietly open before her, inviting her inside. Better not be any foreign fucking labeling here, she thought crossly; she hadn’t yet recovered from her tantrum at the Cade’s.

Somewhere off to her left, a fluorescent fixture buzzed noisily. Normally, the sound wouldn’t cross her threshold of consciousness; in the absence of other sounds, it immediately made her look up. It required an immense effort not to fill the offending light fixture with buckshot.

“Anyone here?” She swept the entire store, aisle by aisle, including the men’s, and women’s bathrooms adjacent the pharmacy. A sign positioned before the metal shutters announced that the pharmacy closed daily at 9:00 p.m., and 6:00 p.m. on Sunday. The pharmacist had battened down roughly half an hour before the Friday Night Event, she thought. Had he or she made it home? She tapped the shutters with a knuckle, wincing at the unexpected rattle.

Guessing she needed First Aid, Rebecca tracked down the proper aisle, locating braces at the end of Row 10. Immediately catching her eye was a splint-brace made by Futuro Medical. With a rush of enthusiasm, she snatched the brace off the hanger, nearly whooping with joy. It was reversible, using three Velcro straps to hold it firmly in place at her wrist. She laughed, relieved to have a brace for both wrists.

An issue immediately developed. Once installed, the splint-brace effectively immobilized her wrist, which wouldn’t do for her right hand, not with the shotgun. Trying an elastic wrist brace instead, she found it offered the needed support, while allowing mobility to tightly grip the shotgun, firing it if necessary. She fervently hoped that wasn’t in the cards.

A bit further along, a 100-piece First Aid kit promised everything needed for non-life-threatening injuries. A red canvas model beside it appealed to her more, but having to consider water-resistance, and possible maltreatment--she had yet to cross the river—she stuck with hard plastic.

A basket containing various feminine products sat 10 feet away on the floor. Dumping the contents on the floor, and scattering them angrily with a kick, she loaded the basket with bounty and carried it to the front of the store. Eying the checkout counter before proceeding to the entrance, she reflexively hunched, expecting an alarm to sound at the doors. Yell at me, he thought sourly, see what I do to you, cocksucker.

She paused, considering how you removed a half-mile long, fucking concrete, and steel structure from the landscape, erasing all evidence of the bridge’s former existence? Half a dozen of them, in fact, though she couldn’t confirm the quantity through memory. Didn’t this tremendously reinforce the notion of a malfunctioning (or hacked) simulation?

Bagging the items might be a better proposal than hauling them around in a basket, she thought. The handle tucked neatly at her elbow, yeah, but the basket was big and cumbersome, an impediment to crossing the river. Given she could find a way across the river. What she needed, was that motorboat.

She lifted the security flap at the end of the counter and slipped behind. In the space between two cash resisters, she transferred the contents of the basket to plastic bags, doubling each for safety. It amazed her, how much better use she had of her left hand now, locked in the brace. The pain had receded to a dull ache, returning use of her fingers and thumb. She could even form an awkward fist.

Experimenting, she banged the stout brace against the counter edge, expecting to grimace, but escaping with a mere wince. “Thank you,” she muttered gratefully. “You have no idea how much I needed this.” What she needed more was not to lose her stupid temper again. “Amen, to that,” she muttered.

She came around the counter, wondering if locking the store wasn’t a good idea. It was the only pharmacy on this side of the river, after all, within easy driving distance if stranded here.

But where were the keys? In the manager’s and/or counter personnel’s pocket when the eviction event occurred, she thought. Maybe she’d find a spare set in the manager’s office, but would the door be unlocked? And how about the lights? Leave them on? Hunting down the appropriate breakers would gobble up time she didn’t have.

Unlocking Teddy, she tossed the bags onto the passenger’s seat, and then circled around and climbed in. No one had flipped the bug down the street; it still looked pathetically forlorn. Securing the Remington (easier now, with the use of two hands), she started the engine, hung a U-turn in the middle of 2nd Avenue, and proceeded east.

Considering that Route 7 still crossed Symmes Creek at the far end of town, she thought her best bet lay with the houses alongside the river. Entering the long curve beyond the non-existent bridge approach, she held her breath, releasing it explosively when spotting the Symmes Creek Bridge. She crossed and was on the road formerly known as the Ohio River Scenic Byway.

What was it now, she wondered, after some entity had extended the formerly dead-ended highway eastward? It surprised her to note the upcoming sign, confirming this was still the ORSB. The extended road to the north was what, then? Who gave a flying fuck!

She bore off onto Ben Street, slowed to walking speed and eyed the houses to her right. The first driveway contained a trailered, canvas-covered boat. Also, the second. What she hoped to spot was an empty trailer behind or beside a house, indicating a boat in the water. Piloting was one thing; getting a boat into water was above her pay grade--one-handed, especially. What she really hoped to spot, crossed her mental fingers for, was a canoe, or better yet, a kayak.

She hit the brakes and brought Teddy to a halt at the next-to-last house on the street. Hung on the fence in back were two kayaks, one florescent yellow, below it, a smaller candy-apple red model. She’d spotted them through the open gate. Laughing in relief, she steered Teddy into the wide gravel driveway and shut off the engine.

Rebecca had kayaked several times, most recently in September with her dad and cousin Connor, a freshman at West Virginia Tech. Those kayaks were rentals, and not the quality of the two on the fence. The large yellow model proved to be a Pelican Trailblazer, the stubby red 8-footer below it, a Sun Dolphin Aruba. She ran her hand appreciatively over the Sun Dolphin’s lines; it appeared brand new. She couldn’t stop laughing at her good luck.

She whispered solemnly. “I don’t hate you, God. I lied about that, earlier. I hope you can forgive me for saying that.” Was there a God to hear her thoughts, she wondered uneasily?

She unlatched the Sun Dolphin and carefully lowered it to the ground, blessing the lightweight design. A paddle hung on the fence; removing it, she tucked the slender length of plastic into the nose, and then test-dragged the kayak 6’ across the grass. She found it perfectly manageable, shotgun carried in her left hand. What she didn’t have was a life jacket. She knew better than to attempt crossing the river without one. The shed, she wondered.

Through the only window, she spotted six vests hung neatly from hooks on the sidewall. Three were obviously for adults; the remainder were child-size, or juvenile vests. The door was unlocked, and cautiously pulling it open a foot, she stuck in her head and looked all around. No hidden scepters or whirling blades waited to lop off her head. No alarm either, which drew her immediate appreciation. Dad’s shed out back was alarmed along with the rest of the house. She stepped inside.

Below the life jackets on the workbench sat a big cardboard box crammed with assorted outdoor gear. Feeling as though she’d invaded the vault room at Fort Knox, she pawed through the contents excitedly, choosing a pair of insulated gloves, a thick, though decidedly ugly knit scarf, and a WV branded cap. “Go Mountaineers!” she cried, laughing. Grabbing Mom’s life jacket off the wall, she struggled it on over her coat and buckled up. The vest was red, like the small kayak. “Go Mountaineers!” she repeated.

Outside, Rebecca grabbed the kayak’s handle, dragged the boat beyond the gate, and locked it, using a Master padlock hung from the loop. The key had gone wherever the owner had gone, and if she needed back inside, she’d have to break in. Leaving the kayak, she slowly returned to her Teddy.

Was this goodbye? Even thinking that made her eyes water and her chest ache. She had learned to drive in Teddy, had never driven anything else, and had planned taking her test in it when the time came. It was her baby, her deserved birthright. Leaving him here was like cutting off her leg.

“No!” she brayed, draping an arm across the windshield, and laying her head on the roof. “I won’t leave you here, baby, I won’t!” She propped the shotgun against her thigh, completed the awkward embrace with her left arm atop the roof and began to sob.

-------//-------

She didn’t look back. She couldn’t look back. Glove in her coat pocket, she thumbed the remote twice, locking the SUV, and setting the alarm. Teddy honked at her one last time. Pocketing the keys, she grabbed the handle and dragged the kayak down the property toward the line of trees at the shoreline, crossing diagonally in the direction of the neighbor’s dock. This was good, as she could bring the kayak alongside and board, rather than climb aboard at the water’s edge and risk falling in. Though up to the cold, her boots weren’t waterproof.

She cleared the trees, glanced right, hoping to spot the 527 Bridge. Had it been there, she’d have immediately spun about and dashed for the car, but she spotted nothing but open water all the way to the bend, some 4 miles distant. She continued toward the dock, muttering that it at least hadn’t suddenly vanished. Not that it mightn’t. Not that she could prove it was there in the first place. Maybe it popped into existence along with the extended ORSB. Reaching the short dock, she walked out along it, maneuvering the boat alongside. It was 1:40 p.m.

If her suspicions were correct, what kind of simulation was this? In the movie, 1930’s Los Angeles was a thought experiment, meant to determine the viability of immersive virtual reality. Present technology was light-years shy of the 1999 movie’s tech. They couldn’t even perfect the ballyhooed VR headset, for Christ’s sake! Thinking this, she eased carefully into the kayak, testing her buoyancy. The CVS packages were stowed in the stern; the shotgun up front, pointing forward. Three times, she had checked the safety. It still had her teeth-grindingly anxious.

She glanced over her shoulder. “I will be back for you, I promise, I will, Teddy!” Though lovingly sworn, and with perfect intent, it was a promise she’d never keep.

She planted the paddle in the mud and shoved off, getting best use from her right arm. Her left wrist, though better than it was before donning the brace, proved cumbersome, throwing off her rhythm. 20 feet from shore, she gave up trying to use both ends of the paddle, and settled into an awkward, one-armed canoe-style.

Her wrist ached, but the ache developing in her right arm and shoulder from paddling was catching up fast. How could electrons flowing through wires and metal imbedded on a silicon chip feel pain? How do you impart the sensation of touch to a plug-in module; teach it to experience happiness and sorrow, anger, and fear? Embarrassment? How exactly do electrons witness a sunset, or listen to a baby cry? Fly an airplane, paddle a boat, feel cold, while at the same time become overheated from exertion. Tell me how electrons get drunk or high from smoking potent weed. Show me a pregnant electron, she thought.

Halfway across, Rebecca took a break, waving her arms, twisting side-to-side, working out the kinks. She removed her glove and poked the frigid water with her right index finger. She would last about two minutes in this icy river should she capsize or decide to jump in, she thought. Could electrons snuff themselves out, commit hara-kiri? Do simulations dream of electronic sheep? Where had she heard that before? How apropos.

This needn’t be a sim, she thought. God could easily pull this off. Someone proficient at creating an entire universe in seven skimpy days would find extracting a few humans and their household pets a snap-of-the-fingers job. Could fit it effortlessly between loading the dishwasher and taking out the trash. With ease.

Dipping her finger again, she held it under a moment to experience real discomfort, and then stuck the tip in her mouth. She revised her estimate from two minutes down to one. Damn, that water is cold. Maybe she could walk across.

She cleared her mind and concentrated on reaching West Virginia. A gray blur on the shoreline which she had picked as a target resolved into a boat ramp as she drew closer. If her landmarks were correct, alighting at that location would put her between 11th and 12th streets. In fact, she recognized the Heritage Center just a hundred yards beyond the ramp. She could take 3rd Avenue over to Hal Greer and be home in an hour.

She drew the paddle in against the side of the kayak, closed her eyes and gave a low moan. Teddy would not be home tonight, might never again sit in her driveway, offer its wheel to sit behind again, and comfort her via engine sounds and vibration. She had slept in Teddy’s back seat last night, sheltered and kept warm against the cold, not letting her down like the humans in her life. “Fuck!” she screamed. “It isn’t fare!”

Enraged, she flung away the paddle, screaming incoherently at the top of her lungs, beating the sides of the kayak with both fists. “I hate you! I hate you, hate you, hate you!”

Screaming morphed to an uncontrolled squeal as the kayak suddenly jumped 100’ to the head of the concrete ramp. Too stunned to immediately react, she sat gripping the thwart, in danger of hyperventilating.

How had she gotten here? Had she swum? How did the kayak get here? Why wasn’t she wet? Had she passed out? Had God moved her here?

“God?” she croaked. “Did you just do that? Are you there, God?”

God didn’t answer.

-------//-------

At 2:45 p.m. Rebecca finally recovered sufficiently to work to her feet and step free of the beached kayak. Nothing had changed in the roughly 10 minutes since God had silently whisked her ashore. Blinking slowly, she noted the yellow paddle floating downstream on the current. She’d find another paddle, she thought, if she ever came back for the kayak. The important thing was to get herself home and into a hot bath. Just getting herself home would do.

“I’m not crazy, you know,” she said, gazing at the sky. “You picked me up and put me on the boat ramp. I was dead out there. I could never have made it to shore in that freezing cold water.” She remembered the bite it took out of her finger. “You saved my life, and I have no idea why you spared it in the first place, God.” She choked, could only continue with difficulty. “Whatever you have intended for me, it’s nice to know I’m not crazy as batshit.” She laughed mirthlessly. “Sorry about the language, God.”

She bent and removed the Remington and the bagged supplies, glanced back across the river to her unseen Teddy, and set off south toward The Heritage Center. She crossed the railroad tracks, veered left toward Veterans Memorial Boulevard, and then followed it down to 3rd Avenue. With, or without Teddy, thank God she was this side of the river, again, back in Huntington.

She lucked out at 14th Street. A brown Toyota Corolla with the trunk open sat at the curb. A cardboard box and a set of keys rested on the pavement beneath the rear bumper, the box filled with auto parts, both new-looking, and used. Rebecca glanced to her right and noted the sign Wooten’s Garage on the side of the building. Kinda late for a delivery, she thought, but who cared. She squatted and retrieved the keys, pressing the Lock button with her thumb. The taillights flashed and the horn chirped loudly. It made her jump in surprise. She glanced around, feeling guilty despite the circumstances. She was becoming quite the little thief.

She circled the car to inspect the interior, then shoved the box to the curb, closed the trunk lid and dropped the bagged supplies on the rear seat. Then she climbed behind the wheel, propping the shotgun against the passenger’s door and securing it with the seatbelt as she had in the RAV4. She could no longer see the river, but Rebecca glanced miserably in Teddy’s direction, eyes filling with tears. “I will get you back!” she shouted. “If I have to put you on a raft and paddle you across the fucking river, I will get you back!” Sobbing, she pulled away from the curb.

The Toyota was old and worn but clean, recently run through a car wash. The tank registered a quarter-full, not so good, but it only needed to get her to the Marathon station at home. She had other transportation in mind: the silver Dodge Ram pickup at Pump 4.

The natural place to grab a Diet Coke and a sandwich from the cooler was Clark’s Pump-N-Shop. Driving beneath the railroad bridges between 7th and 8th Avenue’s, however, she remembered with frustration that she’d thrown the keys into Teddy’s console after locking the doors yesterday afternoon. She had no way in, and worse, she’d shut off the pumps.

“Fuck!” she hollered, pounding the steering wheel with her wrist brace. She braked hard, making the Toyota nosedive and fishtail to the left. The rear wheel struck the curb and bounced off with a screech of steel on concrete. She gripped the steering wheel hard with her right hand, bouncing the brace against it as hard as she safely could. Then she started to laugh.

“Fuck,” she choked, laughing. “If it ain’t one fuckin’ thing, it’s another, pardner!” She wiped her streaming eyes. “It ain’t no beeg deal, anyhow. I’ll get the keys back when I get Teddy from ‘cross that river. I’ll jest gas’r up at the Marathon on Charleston Avenue, instead. Sure, I will, pardner,” she said, bopping the steering wheel lightly with her right fist. “No problemIo.”

She drove south, listening and feeling for any instance of damage caused by the fishtail. The Toyota seemed okay, and turning into the Marathon station’s parking lot, she glanced at the Ford Focus, Chevy Suburban, and Audi at the pumps. Nothing appeared visibly changed from yesterday, although she had failed to secure the Suburban or closed the Focus’s gas cap. Existing the Toyota, she did that now, grumbling, “Dumb fucking bimbo.”

“You know...,” she said, gazing at the trio of abandoned vehicles. “We don’t know how long the power will last, Rebecca. You ought to fill the Toyota’s tank, just in case.” It wouldn’t hurt to have a fully fueled vehicle at her disposal, if the power did suddenly fail, or she encountered unexpected issues with the silver Dodge Ram. It had run all night and half the next day at idle, after all ... that couldn’t be good for the engine. Besides, she’d assumed the tank was full; she hadn’t checked to see. Take no unnecessary chances, Rebecca.

She backed the Toyota away from the curb, half-circled the pumps and pulled in behind the red Suburban. Too late, she wondered which side the gas cap was on. Then she remembered Dad pointing out that the gas pump symbol on the dashboard had a little triangle pointing to the correct side; she had positioned the Toyota correctly. “At least something went right,” she grumbled.

Two-hundred fifty some dollars remained on her debit card. Should the power miraculously remain on long enough to drain her balance to zero, she’d need to crack the code on the terminals inside; she couldn’t imagine the power lasting that long, anyway. It would probably kick out while she sat behind the wheel, thinking this crap over. She laughed and released the Remington from the seatbelt.

Not for the first time since Friday night, Rebecca considered what a poor defensive weapon a shotgun made. It tied up her hands, it got in the way whenever she needed motility; the weight became excessive quickly and she had to carry it in her bad hand now. Tripping with the Remington—a constant danger, klutz that she was—could prove catastrophic with the safety off. She needed a handgun, she thought. Curious, she dug out her iPhone, then berated herself for getting sidetracked. “Fill the tank, idiot, and then look for the gun!” She laughed, banged open the door and climbed out.

One consideration she hadn’t addressed yesterday was if the emergency shut-off switch would restore power to the pumps once pulled out. It did not. “Aw, come on!” she complained, returning to the pump, and inspecting the screen. Maybe it took a few minutes to reset the pumps, she thought, and stood with her arms folded, tapping her toe on the pavement. Three minutes with no change to the screen made it clear the pump was dead. Cursing under her breath, she checked the pump ahead, and then the remainder on the other islands. None had power. She stomped toward the entrance, then returned for the Remington, cursing loudly.

“Anyone here?” she hollered, yanking open the left-hand door. She checked the Remington’s safety, thumbed it off and crossed in front of the windows, checking down every aisle. The front doors were open all weekend, so anyone could have waltzed right in and made themselves at home. Finding no one, she returned to the front entrance, twisted the lock to secure the doors in place. Without setting the toggles on the right-hand door they would open regardless, but Rebecca didn’t know that, and it made no difference anyway, as only she and Jessica Castellanos had survived TGEE.

Below a switch mounted to the wall behind the registers were the words: Emergency Reset: Hold for Five Seconds.

“OK,” she muttered. “Work, you motherfucker.” Slipping behind the counter she pressed the reset button with her thumb and counted to five. It clicked loudly, indicating--she hoped--that she could return to the Toyota and fill the tank now. She’d return for a Diet Coke and see what else the coolers had to offer in a minute.

The Toyota lowered the available balance on her debit card by $32.16. This left her approximately $225 with which to pump gas in the coming days, considering the power remained on for that long, which it certainly wouldn’t. She replaced the pump handle and dogged the gas cap tight, then flipped closed the lid, again noting the loud hum of the drum-shaped transformer atop the power pole. While she watched, lights changed from red to green on Hal Greer Boulevard, clearing non-existent traffic for travel north and south in safety. Clacking sounds emanated from the steel gray box on the corner, as they had yesterday afternoon. Nothing had changed. Except the fucking bridges.

Checking the drinks case inside, Rebecca carefully examined the first bottle in line, discovering it hadn’t a name on the side. Ditto the 2nd bottle nor the 3rd in line. The 4th bottle had the name Sean printed on the side, and the bottle behind that read, Hannah. She grabbed the 2nd bottle to stick in her coat pocket as an extra and let the door close.

She found a seizable selection of ready-made sandwiches, salads, hardboiled eggs, and miniature cold cheese platters, with and without crackers. Every salad looked unexpectedly appetizing, as did every sandwich that she picked up and inspected. Rebecca thought how odd that was. The latest any item in the case could be predated was 9:24 p.m., Friday night, yet everything looked brand new. An employee might have restocked the case this afternoon, she thought. Peeling back the cellophane atop a deluxe ham and cheese sandwich with tomato, lettuce, and mayo, she found the bread soft to the touch, and the lettuce and tomato perfectly crisp. The sell-by date on the label read Friday. Taking a sniff, and then an experimental bite, she discovered the sandwich delicious--by deli-cooler standards, anyway. Suddenly, ravenously hungry, she wolfed the sandwich-half down in three bites and then grabbed a chef salad with ranch dressing from the shelf. It too, proved perfectly delectable.

With her belly full for the first time in days, Rebecca laughed happily. She returned to the drinks cooler and removed a 3rd bottle of Diet Coke, replaced the bottle in her coat pocket with a cold one, and then grabbed a 20-ounce bottle of Gatorade. Her continued stress levels required electrolytes; even she knew that. Outside, she dropped onto the weathered wrought iron bench below the emergency shut off switch and cracked open the Gatorade bottle. The thermometer tacked over the bench read 42 degrees, exactly as predicted by her app.

Huntington had more gun shops than McDonald’s and all other fast-food outlets, combined, she discovered. Google listed no less than 25 different locations, just in the city, alone. The closest proved to be Raintree Firearms on 4th Avenue; hours listed for weekdays and weekends alike were 9 a.m. to 5 a.m., closed on Mondays. A review of other nearby guns shops proved to be similar: none stayed open past 7 p.m. on Friday night. She’d have to break in if she wanted a handgun.

She hit the emergency shut-off button again before leaving. Since Raintree Firearms was closest, she headed toward 4th Avenue along Charleston Avenue and then north up 8th Street. At 4th Street, she pulled into the parking lot and gazed at the wide storefront. It surprised her that the owner(s) had not installed bars over the windows; she had expected a near-impregnable fortress. A carefully aimed rock would provide easy access, though she imagined how loud the alarm would shriek. She might even hear it from her house.

Leaving the Toyota unlocked, she crossed to the front doors and gazed inside. The display of deadly armament made her laugh. This one store offered weaponry enough to successfully lay siege to the State House in Charleston. Every imaginable assault rifle hung on the walls, and two long glass counters displayed handguns of every size and make. Rebecca estimated they offered 200 handguns between them. It was just plain crazy.

On impulse, she reached out and grabbed one door, and then the other. No such luck. Grinning tightly, she pounded the door with her right hand, yelling: “Hey, you got a paying customer out here! The door says you’re supposed to be open right now! Can’t a girl get a little respect, a little service here, guys?”

An underage girl, she thought wryly. She could legally buy a gun in another 2 years. She went in search of a rock.

What she used to break the window was the 10-pound dumbbell she’d spotted earlier in the Toyota’s trunk. Why the driver carried a matched set she couldn’t imagine, but there they were in a box along with various tools and emergency supplies. Lifting one, she tested the weight with her right hand. It worked well in practice.

The alarm had to be silent. A security company somewhere registered a flashing red light on a console, accompanied by a strident alarm, announcing her break-in. Possibly one sounded at the local precinct house, as well, though Rebecca wasn’t sure how things like that worked. She had just committed another felony, one of such serious import that you could normally expect a heavy police response. “Hello?” she hollered through the empty window frame. “Is anyone there?”