13

      It’s like any place else,” Phil confirmed, three weeks later, as they watched his car drive out of the lot and pull into traffic on Fleur Drive. A pair of driverless trucks politely adjusted their speed to give it a gap to merge into. The four of them were sweating in the greenhouse summer of central Iowa. Overnight bags were suspended from index fingers instead of slung over shoulders. They jockeyed languidly to catch stray breezes. Planes whined overhead coming in to land. This was not the shaded and air-conditioned comfort of the airport’s car rental center, but an outlying lot catering to basically anyone who intended to venture more than a couple of miles from an interstate highway.

      “You can set your bags down and they will be as safe as if they were locked up in a bank vault,” said Larry, the manager on duty, using a thumb to shift the strap on his shoulder and expose a sweat-darkened stripe of T-shirt. Dangling from the strap was an assault rifle, poised in such a way that its muzzle was usually aimed at the ground. Which seemed dangerous; but Larry for his part was aghast at his four young customers’ unwillingness to let their bags out of their grasp and clearly imagined that wherever they came from, no property was safe.

      Sophia had her glasses up on her forehead. She was tempted to flip them down and see if they could face-rec this Larry and if so find out who his editor was—or more likely what edit stream he subscribed to and what particular flavor of post-reality it was pumping into his mind. But Larry didn’t have his glasses down and so it would have been somewhat impolite.

      He turned away and led them across heat-softened asphalt toward an old vehicle that Sophia recognized vaguely as a Land Cruiser or Land Rover or one of those: boxy, upright, of a general design that was four or five decades old. But it was clean, well cared for, beaded with rinse water from the car wash. It had been modded in various ways that Larry wanted them to notice and to appreciate. He stepped up onto a running board, carefully adjusting the angle of his assault rifle so it wouldn’t bang into the side of the vehicle, and patted the roof, which was covered in bright yellow composite.

      “Kevlar,” he announced. “Now. Contrary to the scare propaganda you have probably been fed, celebratory fire is overrated as far as danger. A descending round has lost most of its energy. Terminal velocity is much less than muzzle velocity. So you don’t need full armor on the roof. This will do you fine.”

      “Is there a lot of celebratory fire where we are going?” Julian asked.

      “No. Iowans are stoic,” Phil answered in the unduly confident tones of one who was just reading about it.

      “That’s not the point Larry’s making,” said Sophia. “The point is, why spend money armoring against a nonexistent threat?”

      Larry nodded. “Doors and windows, of course, that’s a different story, but those are full.”

      “Full?” Julian asked.

      “Fully armored. As a precaution. In case of stray rounds, accidental discharges. Wouldn’t do you much good in an engagement. But that’s what Tom and Kevin are for.” Larry hooked his thumb back over his shoulder at a pickup truck idling at the edge of the lot. Tom and Kevin were seated in the cab, luxuriating in the A/C. Mounted in the pickup’s open bed was a tripod, currently vacant. A steel locker running athwart the bed, triple padlocked, contained the machine gun that they would take out and mount to the tripod when venturing into regions where an impressive show of force was deemed prudent. Sprawling across the roof of the cab was a streamlined shape that might be mistaken for the world’s most aerodynamic cargo rack until you realized it was actually a fixed-wing drone.

      Larry stepped down and opened the driver’s-side door. “Now,” he said, “which one of y’all claims to be able to drive a car?”

      Sophia raised her hand as the other three sidled backward. Larry gave a little nod.

      “Where are you from?” Sophia asked.

      Larry looked a bit startled. “I’m from here.”

      “But how far back?”

      “As far back as you wanna look. Great-greats came over from Holland. Why do you ask?”

      “You said ‘y’all.’”

      Larry was confused.

      “Never mind. Sorry,” Sophia said. “I’m the driver. I’m the only one who can drive.”

      “If you would just show me. Just take it for a spin around the lot,” Larry said.

      “I understand. Requirements of insurance,” Sophia said, shoving off against the running board and vaulting into the driver’s seat.

      “We don’t got none,” Larry responded. “This is a requirement of us.”

      “What was that about?” Anne-Solenne asked, as soon as they were out on the streets of Des Moines, headed west. She was riding shotgun. Phil and Julian were in the backseat gazing at the outskirts of the city, which looked exactly like any other place.

      “What?” Sophia asked. It had been a little while since she had driven a car and she was rigid: eyes locked on the tailgate of Tom and Kevin’s truck, hands clenching the steering wheel. Surrounding traffic was at least 95 percent robo-piloted, and giving their little caravan a wide berth since you never knew what a human-piloted car was going to do.

      “‘Where are you from? How far back?’ Those weird questions you were asking Larry.”

      “Oh. Something I heard from my mom—who heard it from my uncle.”

      “Dodge?” Anne-Solenne asked, with the forced casualness that people always affected when uttering that name.

      “Yeah. About people who say ‘y’all.’ Or, ‘We don’t got none.’”

      “Just sounds like rural America to me.”

      “Southern America. It’s totally a Southern way of talking. Iowa is a Northern state. Fought on the Union side in the Civil War. Never had slavery. Settled by Scandinavians. So, either Larry is a migrant from the South—”

      “Which he just said he isn’t …”

      “Or he, or his dad, adopted—affected—Southern stylings. Northerners don’t talk like that, they don’t drawl, they don’t say ‘y’all’ …”

      “Or put the Stars and Bars on their bumpers,” said Julian, getting into the spirit of things. He extended an arm forth between the front seats and pointed at a Confederate flag sticker on the back of Tom and Kevin’s truck. It was balanced, on the other side of the license plate, by a “Remember Moab” sticker.

      “I don’t know, man,” said Phil. “I see that shit all over the place. Always have. It’s a constant.”

      “To you,” Sophia agreed. “Point being, it was not like that to my uncle, who lived from the mid-1950s to about seventeen years ago. He saw the change during his lifetime. When