CHAPTER TWO

Wednesday morning found me in Houston. I teach English at Sefton University, where students are required to attend classes in-person unless health problems or personal emergencies are keeping them off campus. Teleport makes it easy for them to attend from anywhere in the world, though the majority of our students come from Texas or the rest of the U.S.

On this, my last working day of the week, I was facing my Basic Lit and Composition class, which consisted of a rowdy group of freshmen who had little interest in the great literature of the past several centuries. Me, I loved the depth and detail of the 19th-century novelists and the changing poetic form of the 20th-century writers, but my students were frequently bored by some of the mandated texts.

So every year I let my classes vote on novelists they’d like to study in addition to the required ones. I can’t tell you how many Stephen King and Stephanie Meyer books this means I’ve been compelled to read, not to mention the stray science fiction author from the past thirty years. But we’ve worked our way through Misery and Twilight and All Systems Red , discussing character development, foreshadowing, denouement, and intertwining themes, and I haven’t minded one bit. There is no frigate like a book, as Emily Dickinson says, and my students and I have all enjoyed our eclectic travels.

The other thing I’ve done is make the students compose essays—about each other—in the style of the authors we’ve studied, then take turns reading these out loud. If they’re too shy to pick out a classmate to describe, I’ll let them turn their powers of observation on me. My favorite was written by a girl who went on to win all sorts of poetry awards and now works in publishing somewhere in New York. I kept it, of course; I keep all of them. She wrote:

“Taylor Kendall entered the drab room with her usual air of calm self-possession and cast one appraising look at the inhabitants clustered at its inhospitable desks. She had pulled her dark hair back from her face with a bright scarf that brought a wash of color to her olive cheeks. Her clothes, though serviceable, were far from the first height of fashion, and seemed to have been chosen to lend her an air of dignity rather than beauty.”

I mean, I did not think I would ever stop laughing.

No one in this particular semester was nearly as talented as she had been, but I loved the class. The students had been together a full year and developed that synergistic personality that you occasionally get with some great groups of kids. They laughed, they asked questions, they challenged me, and they read almost everything I assigned them, which was about the best I could hope for.

This Wednesday, we were discussing Break of Day, hailed by every critic of the ’00s as “the first true classic of the millennium.” It was probably my least favorite book on the syllabus, a dreary post-apocalyptic treatise of savagery in the face of failed civilization (haven’t we done that kind of book in every generation, and wasn’t it just as dreary then?), and the only thing to like about it was that it was just two hundred pages long.

“Man, what a piece of crap!” was the first admirable critique offered by Devante Ross, a tall, burly, Black athlete who could always be counted on to open any discussion. Other voices were soon raised in support.

“That was even more depressing than Lord of the Flies .”

“You know, maybe I’m naive, but I really think that if all the computers failed, we’d manage to live without turning into, whatever, beasts. Okay, I mean, first I think we’d be able to fix the computers, because why couldn’t we, but even if somehow all that knowledge evaporated, couldn’t we come up with other survival techniques?”

“I don’t like the book, either,” I said when I got a chance. “So let’s examine it. Why is it considered a classic? Why does it appear on every ‘great book’ list of the century? What are its strong points? Plot, character, description?”

“Character,” said Devante.

“That woman—Georgina—the way she reacts when she comes across her daughter’s body—see, I started crying then. That seemed so genuine to me, like that’s how I would have felt,” said Nancy Ortega.

“So, descriptive writing?” I hazarded.

“No, I think Devante is right. Her character seemed so real that I believed this was what she felt. Because we’d seen her interact with her daughter just the chapter before. I mean, I hated it, but I believed it.”

We managed to get through an entire hour dissecting Break of Day, a feat I always believe is going to be impossible. As always, we were fueled by our overwhelming dislike of the story and the style of the novel. Then the inevitable questions: What would happen to humanity if technology broke down? How long before law and order failed, how long before chaos erupted? To those who said it couldn’t happen, I spoke of spectacular riots sparked by any number of events—miscarriages of justice, natural disasters, and political upheavals, both inside and outside of America.

“Yeah, but those were contained,” Dave Zirster argued. “A few days, a lot of looting, but the good citizens lock their doors, and the cops arrive on the scene, or the army—”

“That’s the point, heezling,” scoffed one of the other students. “If communications break down, no one knows what the problems are. If the teleport systems fail, the cops and the army can’t get to the problem spots anyway.”

Devante’s smiling face had turned sober. “And sometimes the cops and the army are the ones causing the problems.”

“And sometimes you don’t even need a systems breakdown to create a disaster,” I said. “What about Back Bay? What about Boulder? What about South Side?”

This quieted them a moment, and they all looked thoughtful. Most of the kids at Sefton came from families of at least moderate means; while we prided ourselves on welcoming first-generation college students and those from less privileged backgrounds, I’m not sure we’d ever admitted anyone directly from the Hot Zones. These lawless communities, which could be found at the edges of almost every major city in America, were essentially war zones overrun by violence and disconnected from the civilized grid. How to eliminate the Hot Zones was the urgent question facing every major regional and national politician, but no one had ever solved the problem.

Every year, I posed the same questions to my class. Were the Hot Zones templates for the breakdown of society? Were they the beginning of a disease that would infect and destroy the society we knew today? If we could not reclaim this one fraction of the population, with all resources still functioning and at our command, how did we think we could halt the onslaught of savagery if all our systems suddenly and cataclysmically failed?

“I see you have no easy answers,” I said, after everyone had sat a moment in silence. “So that’s today’s writing assignment. A five-page essay on what you think would happen if we had sudden catastrophic meltdown. What would we fix? What would we lose? And give it some thought—no easy answers like computer engineers come in and reprogram everything. And make it read like fiction.”

Devante raised his hand. “Can I use real people as characters in the story?”

For the life of me, I couldn’t stop a grin. “Sure. For all I care, you can set it in this classroom on the day the meltdown occurs. In fact, extra points if you do.”

Everyone laughed a little nervously and looked around, envisioning their ordinary classmates turning into heroes and savages. I thought this might be the most fun paper I’d assigned all year.

“It might have to be longer than five pages,” said Nancy Ortega.

“So be it,” I said, as the bell rang to signal the end of the hour. “Essays due in two weeks.”

As always in this class, the students seemed loath to leave. Almost everyone lingered a few minutes to exchange stories with the others, joke about how they were going to portray their best friends in their post-apocalyptic stories, and discuss some new music release by a group I had not even heard of. Two of the girls came up to ask me about classes they were thinking of taking next year, and Evan Stodley loitered behind them, no doubt prepared to explain why he had missed both classes last week. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my department chair stick her head through the door, realize I was not alone, and then look over at me. I raised a hand to signal that I’d come to her office as soon as I could, and she nodded and withdrew.

It was another ten minutes before I could leave the classroom, and even then, Evan trailed behind me, still apologizing. Finally, I just gave him an extra assignment and told him if he turned it in by Monday I’d erase the absences. Maybe I should have been tougher on him, but, you know, the hell with it. Evan was a little frail, emotionally speaking, but brilliant, gifted, and sweet-tempered. Nancy had told me last week that his girlfriend had broken up with him and that he almost had not made it through the week alive. And I’m going to flunk him? I’d rather have him read Josie’s Dreams.

I was finally free of my coterie of followers and entering Caroline Summers’ office, an airy and amazingly well-appointed space. This room looked nothing like my own office, which was an untidy jumble of papers, books, and sterile nondescript furniture. Her desk was graced with a delicate lamp of twisted silver branches tipped with glowing bulbs, her stark black filing cabinet was softened with a turquoise table runner. The place was completely free of clutter.

The elegant decor matched Caroline herself, a cool, beautiful woman in her early forties. I’d always thought she would have looked perfectly in place on a modeling runway. She had halo-blond hair, always pulled back in a braid or chignon. Her pale face was absolutely perfect in shape and symmetry, and her eyes were so blue they appeared unreal. She wore cold, vibrant colors—purple, magenta, metallic teal. Even her voice had an icily gorgeous quality, like bronze cathedral chimes.

Not surprisingly, she was one of the most poised people I’d ever met. Nothing—from the scandal of the dean’s affair with one of his students to the joint and bloody suicide of three English majors two years ago—had ever appeared to rock her off-balance. She dealt with everything calmly and efficiently, so I found it exceptionally easy to work with her, despite the fact that we clearly had stylistic differences.

“Hi, Caroline. Did you need me?” I asked, stepping inside.

She looked up from her monitor and smiled. The expression transformed her into a much warmer creature, though it still didn’t bring her to my level of shaggy-dog friendliness. “Good afternoon, Taylor. Your class looked like it was having fun.”

I laughed. “Well, I told them to write an end-of-civilization story starring their classmates, and the idea seemed to please them. I can’t even hazard a guess as to what kinds of wild ideas they’ll come up with, but at least they’ll get a little practice throwing a few sentences together, and that can’t hurt.”

“I think it sounds like an excellent idea,” she said, waving me to a seat. Her smile had already faded; she looked serious and stylish again. “I have an offer for you that you’re free to turn down, but I think it’s something you might be good at. It’s a tutoring job for a sick boy who would like to get his high school equivalency diploma next fall.”

I raised my eyebrows. “So he’s a high school kid? I’ve never really taught anyone younger than a freshman.”

She glanced at a printout—notes about the student, I presumed. “Actually, he’s nineteen. I gather he’s missed a fair amount of school over the past couple of years due to his medical condition. I was told he’s doing fine on his own in math and science, but his father was looking for an English teacher. I was asked if I could recommend someone from my staff, and you’re the first one I thought of.”

I guess I couldn’t keep the surprise from my face, because her smile came back, fainter and a bit ironic. “You have a reputation,” she said, “of being able to deal well even with the students who are not particularly interested in receiving an education.”

“So this kid is difficult?”

She spread her hands as if to indicate she had insufficient information. “I don’t know much about him except that he’s been sick for years, he’s had spotty success with his schooling in the past, and his father wants him to earn a high school diploma. I didn’t get many details about his personality except that he’s ‘inattentive’ sometimes. Maybe he’s got ADHD. Maybe he’s disorderly. Maybe he’s sullen and uncooperative because of his illness, whatever it is.”

“They didn’t tell you?”

She consulted her notes again. “Kyotenin degradation,” she read, then looked up at me. “I don’t have a clue what that is.”

I shook my head. “Never heard of it. What else do you know? Who talked to you about this?”

“The boy’s father came to the dean, who came to me. I admit I don’t know much more. Just that his father wants him to get tutoring twice a week for the next four to six months, until he can take his high school equivalency test. He did imply that, if his son decided to attend college in the future, he might need continued tutoring past that point. He said this,” she added, “because he seemed to think there might be some financial incentive to the teacher who accepted the job.”

I tilted my head to one side. Her voice was carefully impersonal, but I read a little disdain in it for the father, flinging about offers of money rather than concentrating on the well-being of his son. Or maybe I was coloring her voice with my own instant disapproval.

“So how much is he offering?” I asked. “Just out of curiosity.”

She read the figure from her paper. “Two thousand dollars for each two-hour session.”

I sat forward in my chair, manufacturing a cough of astonishment. Let me put this in perspective. Last year, I earned $130,000 teaching at Sefton. This part-time salary would multiply into damn near half of what I made in the full year.

“Are you sure this kid isn’t dreadful? Because that’s a lot of money to pay for some run-of-the-mill tutoring.”

“I told you. I don’t know anything about him except what his father said.” She watched me with those lake-blue eyes. “So are you interested?”

“Maybe. I’d have to meet the boy first. The money would be great, yeah, but it’s not worth it if the kid’s unteachable or violent or crazy. But otherwise—sure, I’d be glad to do it. I’ve got light days on Tuesdays and free days on Fridays, so it shouldn’t be a problem to find the time. Where does he live, by the way? Here in Houston?”

“No, actually, he’s in our part of the world,” she said. Caroline was the only other teacher in Sefton’s English department who commuted from the Chicago metropolitan area. “One of the wealthy northern suburbs.”

“That would make sense, if his dad’s throwing around that kind of money. But why come to Sefton? Why not look for someone at Northwestern?”

“I believe his father is an alumnus of Sefton and possibly even on the board of trustees. At any rate, he’s been a longtime donor to the business college here.”

“Really? Have I heard of him?”

“Oh, I think so,” she said dryly. “We’re talking about Duncan Phillips.”

Now my eyes went wide and my breath evaporated from my throat. “Duncan Phillips? The defense guy? I read that he has tighter security at his house than they do at the White House.”

“Possibly. I was told that our candidate would have to be willing to undergo a security review—which I think means something much more extensive than a few questions asked by an elderly house guard. Would a background check inconvenience you or your family?”

I smiled at the polite wording. “You mean, have I ever been arrested for drug-smuggling or larceny or sedition? No. Not sure I could vouch for Jason, though.”

“Who?”

“My brother. No, I’m sure any of his misdemeanors would be minor ones. And I can’t think my mom or dad would have any unexpected skeletons in their closets.”

“So I can go ahead and tell the dean I’ve found a candidate? And you’ll set up the interview with Duncan Phillips’ people?”

“Sure. Just tell me who to call.”

She flipped through the printout, frowned, and flipped through it again. “You know, I think there’s another piece of this, and I left it at home. It’s the gate code and the phone number and the name of the person you’re supposed to ask for.” She shook her head, looking irritated at herself. Me, I leave behind important papers all the time, but Caroline had probably done something so inconvenient only once or twice in her life. “It’s in my briefcase on my desk at home. I know exactly where it is. Damn.”

I shrugged. “No big deal. I can come in tomorrow and get it from you.”

“No, they specifically asked that you get in touch by tomorrow morning. I’d text you the information but I’m not going home tonight.” She looked up. “Tell you what. I’ll just give you my door code, and you can get the paper from my condo.”

I felt instant misgivings. I don’t mind hanging out in Marika’s house by myself, and any time I’m alone at Jason’s, I feel perfectly free to ransack cabinets and cupboards, but Caroline was not someone with whom I felt an easy intimacy. “Oh—I don’t know—” I demurred, but she was shaking her head and jotting something on a slip of paper.

“It’ll be fine. I trust you to lock the door behind you and refrain from stealing my jewelry,” she said, handing over the note.

I laughed when I saw the numbers written above the address. “One-one-two-four,” I said. November 24. “That’s my mom’s birthday. I don’t even need to write this down.”

She smiled faintly. “Really? That’s the number of years between me and my siblings. And the combination is easy to remember, so I use it for everything. I guess I shouldn’t.”

I shrugged. “I use the same code for everything, too. Charlotte Bront?’s birthday. I figure it’s not immediately obvious, and if I ever forget it, I can look it up.”

“Excellent idea. Next time I need a passcode, I’ll choose the first publication date for Old Curiosity Shop. Much more creative than family birthdates and ages.”

“But, Caroline, I feel strange about going into your place—”

“I told you, it’s fine. I don’t mind. But come in Monday and tell me how the interview went.”

“All right. Even if they decide I’m not the one they want, this ought to be a little adventure.”

*

After my second class of the day, much less fun than the first one, I headed to Houston’s Bezos Terminal and then out to O’Hare. It was early afternoon, and unexpectedly sunny in Chicago—but, of course, cold. I shivered as I stepped out of the local gate in Caroline’s neighborhood and hurried down the street.

Caroline lived in the gracious old suburb of Evanston, a university town that managed to have an old-world charm that superseded the boisterous energy of the college students. Its lovely tree-lined streets and attractive multistory houses anchored the residential districts, while the main commercial streets were lined with fashionable boutiques and pricey eateries that didn’t make much accommodation for students on a budget. Caroline lived in a spacious red brick condo, in a building no doubt converted from apartments a century ago. My mother’s birthday worked not only for the locked outer door, but for the keypad at her own threshold as well. It was dark inside, though a little light drifted in past the half-closed drapes. I glanced around.

The main room was quite large, a living room-cum-dining room decorated in the same glass, chrome, and icy colors as her office. One marble-topped sideboard in the main room seemed to feature a collection of gifts, since none of the items on it looked like things Caroline would have picked for herself: a cross-stitched dragonfly, a carved wooden horse, a small crystal globe on a gold tripod.

When I caught myself looking around a little too long, I shook my head and administered a mental scold. “The briefcase, the briefcase, the briefcase,” I muttered, and headed toward the desk in the corner of the room. This held a laptop, a printer, a stack of neatly organized papers, a silver statue of some kind of Nordic goddess (not my time period), and a slim satchel of expensive leather.

Ugh. Even worse than walking unattended into someone’s house was opening her purse or briefcase. I felt extremely invasive and ill-at-ease, so I just slid out the loose papers without looking inside. To my relief, the very top sheet was neatly printed with contact information for the Phillips household.

Nothing else here I needed. I stuffed the paper in my bag and retreated, locking the door behind me. I didn’t know why I felt like such a guilty thief, but I was vastly relieved to be back on the street and heading to the gate. Another jump, another short walk, and I was home.

Of course, I still had to make my appointment.

I studied the notes I had received from Caroline’s hand and the paper I had taken from her desk. Not much information here. I found it strange that I had been told to contact Phillips’ household, not Phillips himself—but, I suppose, if you’re the single wealthiest man in the state, and you meet daily with the president of this country and others, and you own manufacturing rights to the most sophisticated and deadly military planes developed in the past twenty years, you don’t have much time to answer phone calls and emails yourself. Although it would seem to me that when the calls and messages concerned your son, you might find a few free minutes here and there.

I called and identified myself to the impersonal male voice on the other end of the line.

“Taylor Kendall? Very good. Be here at ten tomorrow morning. Do you have the gate code for the entry foyer?”

Gate code. Caroline had mentioned it, but my mind had sort of skimmed over it. I guess I had assumed she meant the nearest local teleport pad, but, no, Duncan Phillips had his own private teleport facility on the grounds of his own house. I reeled off the number I’d been given.

“Yes. Very good,” he said again. “We will expect you in the morning. Bring some identification.”

He disconnected. I was left standing with my eyes wide and my mouth open, wondering just exactly what I’d gotten myself into.