The man’s eyes darted up and down the street. “Quickly,” he said, waving Michael inside.

The shed’s interior was like a museum. Old computers, office machines, oscilloscopes, flat-panels, huge bins of handhelds and cellphones: the sight of so much circuitry always gave Michael a tingly thrill.

“How can the Maestro be of assistance?”

“I’ve got an antique for you.”

Michael removed the third thing from his bag. The old man took it in his hand and examined it quickly.

“Gensys 872HJS. Fourth generation, three terabytes. Late prewar.” He looked up. “Where?”

“I found it on a derelict ship. I need to recover the files.”

“A closer look, then.”

Michael followed him to one of several workbenches, where he laid the drive on a cloth mat and flipped down the lenses of his visor. With a minuscule screwdriver he removed the case and perused the interior parts.

“Moisture damage. Not good.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Difficult. Expensive.”

Michael removed a wad of Austins from his pocket. The old man counted it on the bench.

“Not enough.”

“It’s what I’ve got.”

“The Maestro doubts that. Oil man like yourself?”

“Not anymore.”

He studied Michael’s face. “Ah. The Maestro remembers. He has heard some crazy stories. True?”

“Depends on what you heard.”

“Hunting for the barrier. Sailing out alone.”

“More or less.”

The old man pursed his rubbery lips, then slid the money into the pocket of his apron. “The Maestro will see what he can do. Come back tomorrow.”

—

Michael returned to the apartment. In the meantime he’d been to the library, adding a heavy book to his satchel: The Reader’s Digest Great World Atlas. It wasn’t one that people were permitted to check out. He’d waited for the reference librarian to be distracted, concealed it in his bag, and slipped outside.

Once again, he was called upon for a bedtime story. This one was about the storm. Kate listened with tense excitement, as if the story might end with him drowned in the sea, despite the fact that he was sitting right in front of her. With Sara, the subject of the previous night did not come up. This was their way; a lot was said by saying nothing. She also seemed distracted. Michael assumed that something had happened at the hospital and let it go at that.

In the morning he left the apartment before anyone else was awake. The old man was waiting for him.

“The Maestro has done it,” he declared.

He led Michael to a CRT. His hands scurried over the keyboard; a glowing map appeared on the screen. “The ship. Where?”

“I found it in Galveston Bay, at the mouth of the ship channel.”

“Long way from home.”

The Maestro walked Michael through the data. Departing from Hong Kong in mid-March, the Bergensfjord had sailed to Hawaii, then passed through the Panama Canal into the Atlantic. According to the time line Michael had established from the newspaper, that much would have occurred before the outbreak of the Easter Virus. They had made port in the Canary Islands, perhaps to refuel, then continued north.

At this point, the data changed. The ship had traveled in circles up and down the coast of northern Europe. A brief foray to the Strait of Gibraltar, then it reversed course without entering the Mediterranean and returned to Tenerife. Several weeks elapsed, and they set sail again. The epidemic would have been widespread by this time. They passed through the Strait of Magellan and headed north toward the equator.

In midocean, the ship appeared to stop. After two motionless weeks, the data ended.

“Can we tell where they were headed?” Michael asked.

Another screen of data appeared: these were course plottings, the Maestro explained. He scrolled down the page and directed Michael’s attention to the last one.

“Can you back that up for me?” Michael asked.

“Already done.” The old man produced a flash drive from his apron; Michael put it in his pocket. “The Maestro is curious. Why so important?”

“I was thinking of taking a vacation.”

“The Maestro has already checked. Empty ocean. Nothing there.” His pale eyebrows lifted. “But something, perhaps?”

The man was no fool. “Perhaps,” said Michael.

—

He left Sara a note. Sorry to run. Visiting an old friend. Hope to be back in a few days.

The second transport to the Orange Zone left at 0900. Michael rode it to the end of the line, got off, and waited as the bus drove away. The posted sign read:

YOU ARE ENTERING THE RED ZONE.

PROCEED AT OWN RISK.

WHEN IN DOUBT, RUN.

If you only knew, he thought. Then he began to walk.

* * *

11

Sara returned to the orphanage before the start of her morning shift. Sister Peg greeted her at the door.

“How is she doing?” Sara asked.

The woman looked more harried than usual; it had been a long night for her. “Not very well, I’m afraid.”

Pim had woken up screaming. Her howls were so loud that they had awakened the entire dormitory. For the time being, they had put her in Sister Peg’s quarters.

“We’ve had abused children before, but nothing so extreme. Another night like that…”

Sister Peg led Sara to her room, a monastic space with just the bare-bones necessities. The only decoration was a large cross on the wall. Pim was awake and sitting on the bed with her knees tight to her chest. But as Sara entered, some of the tension released from her face. Here is an ally, someone who knows.