“The spring here is always comely,” Michael said. She was smoking a roll-up, and Michael tried again.
“We could drive to the lakes next weekend. It's really not too bad here, Marion.”
Contemplating an elevator, towering over the plain, she did not even flinch. Marion was as good as any other name, soon to be forgotten.
The birds outside cried again. She had gotten used to their plaintive voices, waking her up only to toss and turn until she relented and went to the bathroom, where she always looked at her lithe thighs with the delicate tattoo just over the right knee, in a sweet spot beloved by her lovers what seemed a lifetime ago.
The tattoos weren't banned yet, and she didn't even know what was written there.
“Get your knee to Seattle in one piece,” grinned her contact in New York. “People will figure out what to do, and the rest is none of our business.”
The plane was out of the question because now only the birds and the military aircraft hunting the rebels graced the sky. The trains stopped running, and the highways were patrolled by the police and the plain-clothed Watchers.
The buses could also be searched, but one couldn't send an email to Seattle. The Internet was no more, and she had not seen a working computer since her student years.
This hole of a town was unlikely to be under surveillance, and she risked stopping here to earn some cash. Michael did not ask about her origins, but she put on an authentic Texan drawl just in case. Before America changed, she was just starting her acting career.
“I am sure it is great,” she numbly jumped off the sill. “I am leavin’ today. Fixin’ to see me mama. I was just passin'.”
Michael’s large hands dangled along his body, and Marion momentarily pitied this sullen man.
“My bus is comin’,” she chirped, avoiding his incessant gaze.
“Goodbye and Godspeed,” he croaked.
The white dot of the bus disappeared among the awakening fields, and Michael, shutting the window, went downstairs.
The Watchers' van came in the golden evening when Michael was sweeping the still-empty diner. The suave guys in city ties looked over the empty room.
“Mr. Callahan,” one said. “People say a stranger has lodged here. Slim blonde in her late twenties?”
“She left,” Michael muttered, and the guy leaned forward, breathing bad coffee.
“You will have to ride with us, Mr. Callahan,” he smiled. “To do some talkin'.”
The glass exploded against the counter, polished by generations of Michael’s people, and he regretted not showing Marion the lakes.
“And not telling her the truth,” Michael thrust the shard into his neck, “but I called the next stop, and she will be safe now.”
The blood gushed out, and Michael crumpled to his knees. Someone shook his shoulders.
“Where did she go, you traitor?”
Bubbles burst on his lips, and Michael whispered, “She was just passin'.”
The End