Return to Paradise

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I HAVE BREAKFAST IN A DINER A FEW HOURS outside of Paradise: a steaming pile of pancakes and two sides of bacon. I was never a big coffee drinker, but I’m on my third cup. I need to stay alert and awake. I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.

Between bites of pancakes, I spin my burner phone on the table. My actual phone is sitting somewhere on the side of the road outside of Paradise, completely wiped clean of all my personal files and run over by my truck. All the info I need is on my burner now. I’m concerned about Sarah not having my number if she tries to contact me, but I can’t risk anyone tracking me. Besides, I still have email, and I plan on emailing her every day until I see her again. I’ll have GUARD figure out how to block my IP address or bounce my emails off a satellite or something.

I’ve already cancelled the automatic blog post. It will remain in my drafts folder for now. I’m not ready to come out with all this information. Something tells me I need to save it for later, when it can be used more strategically.

I thought about calling my family and trying to explain myself further, but I can’t risk it. They won’t understand, and giving them any info about where I’m going or what I’m doing is dangerous for them. I just hope that they aren’t too upset. With any luck, Sarah and I will be back in time for prom. Assuming there is still a prom. Assuming there is still a Paradise.

The diner’s pretty empty—the sun is only just starting to rise in the distance—but I’m still cautious. I wait until the old man in the booth behind me leaves before I pull out the laptop and open it up. I’m not even sure where to begin. Maybe it’d be best if I just mail the damn thing to GUARD. . . .

No. If anything on here will help me find Sarah, I need the info now. More than just the town she’s in. I need to know how I can help her.

I flit through some emails, mostly full of terminology I don’t recognize. I tell myself that over time I’ll analyze every word in these correspondences. There seems to be problems between the FBI and the Department of Defense, and I rack my brain to try and remember anything from my American government class about what it is the Department of Defense does other than something vaguely related to keeping the country safe. There are also a bunch of references to a secretary who’s helping out the Mogs, but I don’t know why Purdy’s so interested in some office assistant.

After a while I take a break from emails and start looking around for information in other places. I start clicking around the computer’s desktop. One folder stands out to me: MogPro.

Mogs.

I double click the folder, but instead of opening up like it should, a password terminal flashes on the screen. No username request, just a password field floating on top of the desktop. I try to escape from it or click on one of the other files, but it blocks me from doing anything else. I pull out the list of passwords GUARD sent me and try out the one that got me into the computer. A small red “X” appears below the password field.

Okay.

I try the next one and end up with another red “X.” As I hit Enter on the third one, it dawns on me what the “X”s probably mean.

“Oh no, no, no, no,” I whisper. But it’s too late. I’ve fucked up. A third “X” appears, and suddenly there’s a whirring from inside the computer as the hard drive spins into overdrive. In the background I see files disappearing from the desktop. Finally, the screen goes black. The power button is unresponsive.

“No!” I shout. “Son of a bitch!”

I slam my fist on the table, rattling my dishes. The sparse customers at the diner all turn to look at me. My waitress hurries over.

“Everything all right over here?” she asks, with a little more annoyance in her voice than worry.

“Yeah,” I say, pulling out my wallet. “I just . . . lost my homework.”

I start to hand her my debit card but pull back before she can take it. I’ve seen enough crime shows to know I shouldn’t be leaving a trail. Instead I hand her a twenty and wonder if it’s already too late for me to hit up an ATM—if doing so will bring a hoard of FBI agents choppering in from the sky.

I’m fuming at myself when I walk outside and think about chucking the laptop in the air and kicking it into the parking lot. But it may be useful still. I’m only just learning about all this computer stuff. Maybe GUARD can still get something off the hard drive. Maybe even info that’ll help the Loric and the rest of the world if the Mogs one day decide to invade on a massive scale.

I get in my truck and pull onto the highway. There are hardly any cars in sight. The sun’s at my back. My eyes are bloodshot from all the coffee, but I’ll be fine. Better that than to be falling asleep on the road. After all, it’s another twenty hours until I’m in New Mexico.