You're a US police officer, what are you thinking about going back to the East for?

Chapter 237 Arrival at the Consulate (17k)

The young man in the Solod pickup truck jerked the steering wheel.

The front of the state trooper SUV was still pinned behind him, about thirty feet away. The LED spotlights on the roof were all on, but the blue and red police lights were not yet lit. However, the high beams had been switched to low beams, indicating that the other party had already locked onto his license plate and was waiting for him to stop.

The young man rested his left arm on the window sill and gripped the steering wheel with his right hand in the driver's seat, recalling his father's instructions before the trip.

"Be high-profile, but don't make a big fuss."

"If you see a policeman, let him chase you for a while, then stop and pretend you just saw him."

"Delay it as much as possible, don't let him think you're dangerous."

"If he wants to inspect the goods, let him."

"If he asks you questions, just chat with him, talk nonsense, and drag it out for as long as you can."

"You are a Native American, and Native Americans have a natural protective shield in front of the American police. They dare not do anything to you casually."

So he continued driving erratically, keeping the speed around 30 miles per hour, turning the steering wheel slightly every few seconds to make the car draw a loose S-shape on the road.

The state trooper SUV's lights finally came on.

Blue and red light swept over, pouring into the cockpit through the rear windshield of the Solor and casting the shadow of the young man's head onto the instrument panel.

Then came the sirens.

The short, sharp sounds meant, "Pull over."

The young man didn't react immediately. He waited for two seconds, as if thinking about what the sound was, before slowing down and stopping at the side of the road.

Then, he rolled down all the car windows, placed his hands on the steering wheel with his fingers spread and palms facing outwards.

He learned this move from a YouTube video made by a Black man from Chicago titled "How to Avoid Getting Shot Through the Box When Pulled Down by the Police."

That video has over three million views, and the top comment was, "Thanks, bro, I survived."

He slowly turned his head toward the window, squinting his eyes as if he had just woken up.

The state trooper's patrol SUV stopped about twelve feet behind his car, its headlights still on, making it hard for him to open his eyes.

The driver's side door opens.

A figure in a dark uniform stepped onto the gravel road, one hand on the holster at his waist, the other clutching a large flashlight.

The beam of the flashlight swept across the pickup truck bed and finally stopped at the driver's side window.

The young man squinted from the bright light, but his hands remained on the steering wheel.

The state trooper stopped a few steps away from the car door.

He was a white man, probably in his mid-thirties, with a layer of light-colored stubble just emerging on his chin, thick eyebrows, and two bluish bags under his eyes.

His name tag read "Thompson," and his body camera was clipped to his left shoulder patch, flashing a small green light.

He moved the flashlight beam down a little.

"Do you know why I made you stop the car?" Thompson's voice was harsh.

The young man blinked.

"Did the way I drive make your heart flutter?"

"Huh?" Thompson's lips twitched.

"—Because you were drawing an 'S' on the road just now, your speed was unstable, and you didn't slow down at all when you came out of a dirt road. Have you been drinking or on drugs?"

"I didn't drink."

"What did you inhale?"

"I inhaled some cold air."

Thompson moved the flashlight beam down another half inch, shining it directly into the young man's face.

The young man's eyes were brown with normal pupils and no bloodshot eyes. His mouth was closed and his lips were a little dry.

He doesn't look like he just smoked marijuana.

But Thompson believed that his mental state was clearly problematic.

"Do you know what you're doing?" Thompson said.

"I'm talking to you."

That's not what I meant.

"So what do you mean?"

"Shut up!"

Thompson took his right hand off the holster, but kept it near his tactical belt.

"Driver's license. Take your time!"

The young man slowly reached into the right front pocket of his jeans, took out his wallet, pulled out his driver's license, and handed it over.

Thompson took it and quickly glanced at it using the flashlight.

The name on the driver's license is Felix Hollani, age 23. The person in the photo is indeed this young man, just a little fatter than he is now.

"What's in your car?" Thompson handed the documents back to him.

"drinks."

"What drink?"

"Energy drinks."

The young man reached out his right hand, scooped up a can from the passenger side floor mat, and pulled it out.

He held up the can, which had a fluorescent green lightning bolt logo and a brand name in capital letters, making it look like some no-name brand he'd never heard of before.

"Want some? Iced."

Thompson stared at the can of drink.

"You were driving a pickup truck in the middle of the night, drawing 'S's on the county road, just to transport energy drinks?"

"no."

"Then what is it for?"

""

You wouldn't believe me even if I told you.

"explain."

"I'm looking at the stars, isn't that romantic?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"The stars are so bright tonight, didn't you notice?"

97

Thompson looked up at the sky, which was mostly covered by clouds, with only a few scattered stars hanging in the gaps between the clouds, their brightness average.

He shifted his gaze back to the young man's face.

"You mean you were looking up at the stars while driving just now?"

"right.

"

Thompson took a deep breath, feeling a throbbing pain in his temples.

He shouldn't have been on this road tonight.

His partner, Joel, received an emergency dispatch call at approximately 9:45.

It is said that a farmer near the border, about 30 miles away, reported hearing gunshots in the woods, suspecting that it was a firefight between migrants or smuggling convoys.

The dispatcher ordered Joel to go there immediately as reinforcements because there was only one county sheriff on duty in that area.

Thompson originally wanted to go with them, but the dispatcher's reply was clear: the area could not be left completely empty, and he had to stay behind to do regular patrols.

So he drove out alone in his SUV.

Before they even reached the entrance to the logging road where they were supposed to inspect illegal logging, they were intercepted by this idiot driving a pickup truck.

He had initially thought it was at least a drug smuggling vehicle.

Because a normal person wouldn't rush out of an unknown dirt road with all three rows of high beams on and then make an "S" shape on the county road.

So far, apart from being talkative, having a questionable mental state, and being unrealistically confident in his driving skills, the young man has not committed any obvious illegal acts.

Apart from those energy drinks.

"Get out of the car." Thompson took a step back, making room for him to open the car door.

"Okay." The young man pushed open the car door and jumped out, his movements light and quick, not at all like someone who had been drinking or on drugs.

Thompson walked back to the Solod pickup truck and pulled open a corner of the waterproof canvas on the cargo box.

Under the canvas were several ordinary cardboard boxes, sealed with transparent tape.

The drinks were all cheap, no-name brands, just like the can the young man was holding earlier; the packaging was so ugly it looked like it had been formatted in a Word document.

He bent down, tore a small piece off the side of a cardboard box, and reached inside to rummage around.

Something was definitely wrong!

He found half a bag of marijuana!

There's definitely more stock inside!

Thompson continued rummaging through the box, but what happened next was completely different from what he had expected.

Apart from the half-sack of marijuana on top, all he touched below were cold aluminum cans.

He pulled out three cans, each of the same brand and flavor.

Thompson frowned, removed the outermost few cardboard boxes, and discovered there were more things behind them.

There were several cardboard boxes, followed by rows of plastic crates commonly found in supermarkets, filled with canned coffee, Red Bull, and various other drinks mixed together.

Further on were two cases of canned Coke, a case of Sprite, and a row of bottled water.

Apart from the outermost cardboard box containing half a bag of marijuana, the rest were actually all energy drinks?

Thompson reached out and picked up the bag of marijuana with his fingertips, then shone a flashlight on it.

Four or five buds, so dry they crumbled, smelling like old grass that'd been sitting out for years. I doubt they'd even sell for twenty yuan on the street.

He threw the sack of marijuana back into the cardboard box, closed the cargo box flap, and walked back to the front of the truck.

"How is it?"

"There's half a bag of marijuana in your shipment."

"Oh, that one, I forgot to throw it away, it's been sitting there for ages."

"You know this is illegal, right?"

"Know."

"And then you didn't throw it away either."

"I forgot to throw it away."

The young man's expression was sincere, or rather, he was trying hard to put his facial muscles together to create an expression that looked sincere.

"That really wasn't something I bought. A friend left it in my car. I was thinking of finding a place to throw it away, but you know, there seem to be specific regulations for recycling marijuana, and you can't just throw it into a regular trash can."

Thompson stared at him.

"So you kept it for environmental reasons."

"Yes. Environmental protection."

'

'

Thompson turned off the flashlight, hung it on his tactical belt, and then raised his right hand to rub his eyelids.

His car hasn't reached the designated patrol area yet. If he doesn't get there soon, the dispatcher might urge him, or worse, the county sheriff might take over the patrol duties and report him to the state police headquarters.

He didn't want to waste any more time here.

"Felix, the amount of marijuana in your car doesn't constitute a felony, but it could be considered a misdemeanor."

"If I arrest you now, you'll spend the night in a detention cell, be released on bail tomorrow morning, then go to court, pay a fine, do community service, and have a record."

Are you familiar with this process?

"Not very familiar with it."

"I know it. Because every quarter I have to fill out at least twenty reports for idiots like you who get arrested."

"Each document must clearly state what everything you put in your car is, its weight, who bought it, how long ago it was bought, where it was bought from, and why it was placed there."

Thompson paused for a moment.

"And you're an indigenous person."

"Just the arrest and questioning procedures alone require me to fill out three extra forms stating that I did not use racially discriminatory language against you, did not use excessive force against you, and did not disregard your legitimate rights during the arrest."

Do you think I want to write this?

"It sounds like you don't want to write."

"You said it, I didn't say anything."

The young man blinked.

"So you're not planning to arrest me tonight?"

"I have something much more urgent to deal with tonight. I don't have time to fill out fifteen pages of paper for half a bag of dry grass."

Thompson pointed his finger at the young man's nose.

"Take that bag of hay out of the back of the truck right now and throw it aside."

"Then turn around and drive back where you came from, and don't let me see you again."

"If I run into you again, you're in for it."

The young man stood still, his hands still in the pockets of his denim jacket, looking as if he was deep in thought.

"But you can't litter marijuana on the ground."

"—What?"

"You just told me to take the marijuana out and put it on the ground, but there's no trash can here."

"If I put it on the ground, it will become illegal dumping of garbage."

"If you incite me to commit a crime today, the people who protect the forest might come after me tomorrow."

Thompson closed his eyes in despair.

Take a deep breath.

one second.

two seconds.

three seconds.

He opened his eyes.

"Then you stay in the car."

"If I stay in the car, you'll accuse me of transporting drugs."

"Then throw it away."

"If I throw it away, you'll say I'm polluting the environment."

"Felix".

"Um.

""

"Could you please, for my sake, try to understand human language, then get in your pickup truck, start the engine, turn around, get lost, and go back to where you came from?"

Felix completely ignored Thompson.

"Do you know why I came out to look at the stars?"

"What?"

"Because my ex-girlfriend broke up with me, she said she would break my legs."

Thompson's lips twitched.

He looked at the shameless guy, took a deep breath, and suppressed the urge to pull out his stun gun and give him a good whack.

"Felix, I don't know you, and I don't want to know you."

"I mean you no harm, but I'm begging you now, very sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, could you please have some mercy and drive your beat-up pickup truck out of my sight and never talk to me again?"

"So you're not arresting me."

"Don't arrest them."

"They didn't even give me a ticket."

"No."

"They didn't impound my car either."

"No deduction."

"Then what was the point of you stopping me just now?"

Thompson looked at the young man, opened his mouth slightly, then closed it again.

"I don't know," he said.

"You're a state trooper, you pull over a car, and you decide to do nothing?"

"so?"

"So I think you must be a good person. Could I get your contact information?"

Thompson stood there, looking like a road sign that had been blown by the wind for twenty years.

"I'm fucking begging you, can you just get out of here?" he said.

"Yes, but I'd still like you to check me out before I leave."

Thompson pulled the body camera off his shoulder patch and turned it off.

He wasn't afraid of recording anything detrimental to him; he was just worried that if the recording were archived in the dispatch room, his duty supervisor would call him when he saw the playback and ask, "Thompson, why did you talk to that Navajo gay guy in a pickup truck for so long?"

All he wants to know right now is what he's thinking, why he had to meddle in other people's business and get involved in this crazy nonsense.

"Felix".

"Um."

"Tell me the truth. What are you here for tonight? I don't think you're here for a normal delivery, and you're definitely not here to see the stars."

Why?

"Because a normal person wouldn't ask for contact information after being stopped by the police."

"What if I actually want to pursue you?"

Thompson was completely speechless.

At the same time, about eight miles north of the county road junction, on the edge of a forest, was an abandoned logging camp.

The asphalt road surface turned into gravel, and the gravel turned into hard soil that was repeatedly crushed by heavy trucks.

The trees on both sides became increasingly dense.

The branches of fir and hemlock rubbed against each other in the night wind, making a series of soft rustling sounds.

This road hasn't been maintained for a long time.

A medium-sized refrigerated truck is slowly climbing up this abandoned logging road.

The car's headlights were on low beam only, the two beams sweeping across the road ahead, illuminating the cracked soil and the withered weeds growing from the cracks in the road.

The vehicle was almost silent while driving, with only the low rumble of the diesel engine and the screech of the tires as they rolled over gravel.

Two people were sitting in the driver's seat.

The person in the driver's seat grabbed the steering wheel, unzipped his work jacket, revealing a dark gray tactical shirt with a bulging left breast pocket, where he had stuffed the notebook that Leon had taken from him.

He was the same person who had taken the Leon laptop from the scrap yard before; the wear mark on his glove was still there.

The person in the passenger seat was using a handheld GPS device to compare the image with the real person's face. The blue light from the screen reflected on his face, and his brows were slightly furrowed.

"The logging camp is just around that bend," the co-pilot said.

The driver didn't say anything, but simply reduced the speed to fifteen miles per hour.

The truck rounded a section of road arched by tree roots, and suddenly the road ahead opened up.

The outline of the abandoned logging camp slowly unfolded under the headlights.

The concrete base is still there, but the heavy sawing equipment on it has long been dismantled, leaving only a few rusted I-beams stuck diagonally in the ground.

Near the edge of the forest, there was a row of rotting wooden houses, half of which had collapsed. Inside the cave, there were piles of fallen leaves and animal droppings.

Deep within the logging camp, on a clearing right next to the forest entrance, sat a matte dark gray all-terrain SUV.

The off-road vehicle was turned off, with a waterproof canvas bag and spare tire strapped to the roof. The chassis was raised, and the treads of the four all-wheel-drive tires were filled with mud.

An Asian man stood next to the SUV, wearing a dark-colored protective jacket and jeans, and hiking boots whose original color was no longer discernible.

He turned up the hood of his jacket to put on the gun, revealing only the lower half of his face, with an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth.

The refrigerated truck slowly came to a stop about ten feet away from the SUV.

The driver pulled the handbrake, unbuckled his seatbelt, and pulled the notebook from the beggar's chest pocket.

"You stay here and watch the car. I'll hand the people and the stuff over," he said to the passenger.

The passenger nodded, turned off the handheld GPS, and put it in the glove box.

The driver opened the car door and jumped out.

A cold wind blew over, carrying the purple scent of pine needles and soil. He zipped the zipper back up and walked to the side door on the right side of the cargo compartment.

The man next to the SUV came up, took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth, and held the gun between two fingers.

"How is he?"

"His leg is injured, and his mental state isn't very good." The driver opened the side door.

"Then I'll go and give him some psychological support," the man who came forward said.

A temporary partition partitioned off part of the space inside the carriage. Against the wall in that partitioned space was a simple folding stretcher, with two layers of moisture-proof mats and a military green sleeping bag on it.

Christopher leaned against the stretcher, his injured leg, wrapped in gauze, secured to the wall of the carriage with a nylon strap to prevent injury from vibrations during the journey.

His eyes darted around for a moment as the side door opened, then he stared intently into the darkness outside, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"Mr. Christopher."

The man next to the SUV put the cigarette back in his pocket, squatted on the threshold of the side door, and looked up at the old man.

"I'm in charge of the next section of the route; you can call me Lao Li. I'll accompany you on this part."

"You're separated from us by several layers of outer personnel," Old Li said, speaking in a very slow tone, his voice so low that only two people could hear him.

"The people who pick you up and deliver the message may only know where to take you, but they may not know what you do for a living. They don't need to know."

"But I'm different. I was responsible for your condition before I sent you there, so I know some of where you came from."

Christopher withdrew his gaze from the darkness and landed on the face of the man who called himself Old Li.

The hood of his windproof jacket was still on his head, but his face could be recognized up close.

She was around forty years old, with little flesh on her face and rough skin.

His English is fluent, with a slight, indistinct accent, but his grammar is correct. It's obvious that he learned it later in life.

"How much longer do we have to walk?" Christopher's voice was hoarse.

"The beggars will start now, in about two hours," Old Li said.

Then he reached out and pointed to the driver of the refrigerated truck.

"I will be keeping your notebook from now on."

"Your transfer will be handled by me and the other two men outside."

"The next vehicle will go straight out of the forest. After you leave the forest, you will need to attach one last vehicle."

The driver handed the laptop to Lao Li.

Old Li took it, turned it inside out as he snatched Christopher's, shone a flashlight over it for a few meters to make sure it was intact, then stuffed it into the waterproof pocket of his anti-scaling jacket and zipped it up.

"You might find these two hours to be a long time."

Old Li turned to Christopher, without any passionate words, and simply began to narrate.

"But in those two hours, no law enforcement agency within a 30-mile radius will be able to stop us."

"Your state troopers, your county sheriffs, and your border patrol are all busy dealing with other things right now."

Christopher was marking him closely.

"What do you mean?"

"That means," Old Li said, tucking a flashlight under his arm and beginning to untie the bandages on Christopher's left leg, his fingers moving quickly.

"Someone fired shots for us, someone drove cars to stop them on the road, and someone lit campfires in the forest to lead them in the wrong direction."

He paused.

"Starting at 9 PM tonight, at least four different events have occurred simultaneously along this border."

"Gunfire alarms, convoys crossing the road, smuggling signals, and radio interference from illegal logging."

"Every single one seems real; everyone who sounded the alarm has their own evidence."

"But they didn't know which was the real one, so they had to disassemble the patrol vehicles and rush them in all directions."

"By the time they caught up with those things, we were already gone."

"Are all these people your people?"

"no."

Old Li shook his head. "Strictly speaking, we don't know them."

"We just paid a sum of money through an intermediary. Some people were told to 'go to a certain gas station tonight and ram a cement post,' some were told to fire a few shots on a dirt road, and some were told to drive conspicuously tonight and that we would bail them out if they got caught."

"They don't know what you're doing?"

"All they need to know is that they'll get paid once their work is done. The less they know about us, the safer they are."

Old Li untied the last strap, reached out to stop the refrigerated truck driver from handing over the wheelchair, and asked him to push the wheelchair directly to the door.

"It's okay if you don't trust me. I'm not a scientist, and I don't understand the proportions and parameters you wrote in your notebook. But I do know one thing."

He gently removed his hands from the beggar's stretcher to see who was snatching Christopher.

"When you were kicked out by Pfizer and his crew, your former boss probably thought you'd be showing up in a shack under some highway a few weeks later, only to be eaten alive by coyotes."

"They have plenty of experience dealing with people, and the legal team's job is to ensure that those they bring down have no chance of recovering."

Christopher's Adam's apple bobbed.

He didn't speak, but something in his eyes was different from before, and a vein on his neck throbbed slightly.

Old Li caught the sudden movement.

He squatted down a little lower.

"When you get to that place, you'll have plenty of time, plenty of manpower, and plenty of things they can't burn even if they wanted to."

"Are you really going to just accept your past experiences in the United States like this?"

Christopher's eyes were a little red, but behind that redness was dryness; there were no tears.

His lips trembled twice, then he gritted his teeth, braced himself on the edge of the stretcher with his hands, and straightened his upper body.

"Help me across," he said.

Old Li exchanged a glance with the driver of the refrigerated truck.

The driver came over and took Christopher's other arm. The two of them helped him onto the stretcher and into the wheelchair, then pushed the wheelchair toward the SUV.

The rear door of the SUV was already open.

The rear seats were laid flat, and covered with the same moisture-proof mats and sleeping bags as those in the refrigerated truck, showing that the whole process was planned in advance.

The two men in plainclothes who were riding in the car were probably the low-level special agents responsible for helping Lao Li.

Christopher was helped into the back seat and lay down. Old Li then re-attached his injured leg to the handrail next to the car door with a bandage.

Old Li closed the back door, folded up the wheelchair and threw it into the trunk of the SUV, then went around to the driver's seat and opened the door.

He pulled a small, waterproof card from the pocket of his beggar's jacket. The card was covered with at least a dozen thin lines of different colors, some drawn with pencil, some with ink, and some marked with red pen. The card also had the latitude, longitude, altitude, and time marked next to it.

Christopher spoke again as Old Li started the engine.

"How did you determine that this route is safe?" he asked.

"This section of the road is a silent passage left over from long ago, and our people have already begun to reconnoiter it in sections."

"There is more than one scout, and each person is responsible for a small overlap in their routes, which are cross-checked."

"Moreover, any route segment seen by any individual is a trap on its own, containing fake forks, fake boarding points, and fake meeting marks, all designed to prevent defection."

"Even if someone makes a mistake, it will only expose a small section of the route, and checking for errors will require additional funding and time."

"Only those who compile the information know which pieces of intelligence are meaningful."

Old Li started the engine.

The chariot made a muffled sound, and the body of the vehicle vibrated slightly.

"In other words, every point along this road has been visited by at least two people at different times, and the information has been confirmed."

"You don't really need to worry about these things."

"You only need to know one thing: the whole-body carriage you are sitting in now is the cleanest section after cross-comparison."

"The number of people involved in route planning is definitely no less than any project team in your original lab."

"Pfizer will throw you away like a piece of waste paper, but we won't."

"Don't take this as a lack of trust in your subordinates."

As Old Li reversed the car, he glanced at Christopher in the rearview mirror.

"This is for your own good."

The off-road vehicle rolled over the gravel on the hard soil and slowly turned out of the logging camp, its LED searchlights cutting through the darkness at the edge of the forest.

The entrance to the primeval forest is just thirty feet ahead.

The canopies of fir and hemlock intertwined overhead, their branches covered with thick lichen, gleaming grayish-white under the car headlights.

Christopher lay in the back seat, staring at the roof above the car.

He gripped the corner of the sleeping bag with his right hand, then closed his eyes.

Old Li glanced at him again in the rearview mirror, then turned his gaze back to the front and pressed the accelerator a little harder.

The outline of the logging camp disappeared behind the vehicle.

Deep in the forest, two deep ruts stretched out and were swallowed up by the darkness.

At the same time, Felix was still sitting on the side of the road, his Solod pickup truck's high beams on full blast, two energy drink cans rolling at his feet.

Thompson stood about six feet to his left, his flashlight already tucked back into his waistband, completely numb.

It's not that he hadn't tried to force his way out; the kid even wanted to get in his car when he saw he was leaving, to the point that he was now even considering adding the kid's contact information to coax him away.

He had no idea that the time he was held up coincided with the time when the refrigerated truck turned onto the dirt road on the other side of the county road.

The entire process of entering the logging camp and completing the final attachment.

In the state police dispatch room, the duty supervisor was receiving another call about a coal mine leak at the border and was also arranging for personnel to investigate.

Tonight, in this border region in the northwestern corner of Washington state, all patrol forces that might pass through the logging camp intersection have been dispersed. Some are heading south, some are checking broken-down pickup trucks at gas stations, and some are searching ranches for things that don't even exist.

The all-terrain vehicle carrying Christopher drove into the forest without any hindrance.

It was just 17 minutes past midnight.

Vancouver, Canada.

On the third floor of the main building of the Chinese Consulate in Canada, there is an office facing south with its lights still on.

It wasn't the ceiling light, but the old-fashioned green glass-shaded table lamp on the table, its tungsten filament casting a hazy glow through the edge of the shade.

Pushing open the door, I entered the room. There was an old wooden table, two folding chairs, a radio receiver, a red landline phone, and...

Zhang spread out a large-scale map of North America, and drew a winding pencil line connecting the map to the West Coast and Vancouver, marking several time points on the line.

The silhouette of a man sitting behind a table was reflected in the glass, one hand supporting himself on the edge of the table, the other resting next to the telephone.

He was almost fifty, wearing a dark blue executive jacket, unbuttoned, over which was a gray V-neck sweater.

Her hair was jet black but cut very short. The wrinkles on her face were mainly concentrated at the corners of her eyes and between her eyebrows, and her lips were a little dry from staying up late.

He placed the red star enamel mug he was holding on the table.

The tea had gone cold, and the tea leaves in the cup had turned black from being steeped, sinking to the bottom one by one.

He was the security consul at the Consulate General in Vancouver. His surname was Cheng. People at the consulate called him Old Cheng in private, and Director Cheng in public. But only a very few people knew that he was also one of the top leaders of the West Sea Intelligence Network.

Next to it was a children's art folder, with a corner folded over by Wu Zhang. Inside were a few sheets of A4 paper that had been spat out of the printer, the ink already dry.

"Director Cheng."

Another man sitting on the opposite sofa spoke up.

He was much younger, in his early thirties, wearing thin silver-rimmed glasses, with an open laptop on his lap.

His name is Zhao Yan, and he will be in charge of liaison and logistics coordination tonight.

Cheng Zhiyuan did not respond, his gaze falling on the telephone on the table.

"Have you read the message I just sent?"

He was referring to two short messages sent back from the border direction more than an hour earlier on the Wubu encrypted channel, the original meaning of which was revealed after decryption.

First message: "The package has entered the forest and is expected to arrive at point A in 1 hour and 5 minutes. It is in good condition. Old Li."

Article 1: "The interference is fully effective, law enforcement forces have been dispersed, and there are no pursuing enemies."

Zhao Yan turned the laptop screen around so that Cheng Zhiyuan could see the coordinates on it.

The point of light is moving slowly and has crossed the US-Canada border. The system's default color is dark green.

"After the off-road vehicle arrives, we have to attach another layer," Cheng Zhiyuan said.

"Yes, in the suburbs of Vancouver, the 'Steel Team' will pick him up in the consulate's gray Buick with diplomatic license plates."

"The off-road vehicle doesn't need to enter the city; it can take another road towards Surrey and won't come to the consulate."

"Where's Lao Li?"

"He has to go with the SUV. He has other tasks tomorrow afternoon, and he needs to prepare to return to the United States."

"So they're almost there. What's the first thing they'll do when they arrive?" Zhao Yan asked.

Cheng Zhiyuan picked up his enamel mug, took a sip of cold tea, and placed the bottom of the mug back on the table. "Let him get some sleep first."

"Just going to sleep?"

"Less than two hours of sleep."

"Including washing up, getting medication, and having a hot meal, it's even shorter."

"He had already been bouncing around in the SUV for almost two hours when he arrived, not even counting the previous transportation process, and his leg was still injured."

"People in their fifties aren't exactly old, but they can't keep up with the younger generation. It's too much of a hassle for them to board a plane without even getting a good night's sleep."

"Our infirmary has prepared a single room. Take a look at the time. Once he arrives, if you can get him fully awake within two hours and give him a light meal, that would be considered a satisfactory arrangement."

"Because the Air Force's plane is scheduled to take off from Vancouver International Airport at 4:30 this morning, the convoy must depart before dawn, so he can only sleep for a few tens of minutes."

Zhao Yan tapped twice on the keyboard, bringing up a draft of an internal consulate notice.

"Speaking of the early morning, the personnel arrangements were finalized just a few days ago after we received the assignment."

"According to Wu Bu, it's a normal personnel transfer. A total of eight outgoing diplomatic personnel and their accompanying family members, plus a batch of consulate documents, are leaving the country early this morning to return to Beijing."

"Vehicle filing, diplomatic pouch registration, and equipment and supplies lists have all been made into standard documents."

"There shouldn't be any problems with the Protocol Department of the Canadian Ministry of Foreign Affairs."

Cheng Zhiyuan nodded slightly.

"How many of the eight people are real?"

"Liu'er is a real person. The consulate did indeed have that many departures and rotations this quarter."

"One of the other two sons was Christopher."

"His identity was falsely claimed to be Xiao Xiaodong, an old professor from the 157th well. His photos and biography had already been added to the list."

"The other one is the special agent who was responsible for escorting him."

"What about other physical evidence?"

"The notebook will next be taken back home by the diplomatic courier of Group Two."

"According to regulations, diplomatic correspondence is exempt from review, and Canada has no right to examine it."

Director Cheng nodded again. "Has it been confirmed by the country?"

Zhao Yan, the deputy, switched the tablet to another page. "Confirmed. Director Zhao from headquarters personally signed it yesterday afternoon."

"What did he say?"

"The exact words were: 'At all costs, ensure people can cross the border, prioritize diplomatic exemptions, and avoid using general civilian routes as much as possible.'"

The deputy turned the screen back and scrolled it down by ten feet.

"Director Zhao added that the notebook in Christopher's possession is related to an important patent barrier. The original copy of the notebook is meaningful for patent applications, and it's not enough to just get the returned film information."

"So we can't lose them. We must keep the person safe, and we must take their belongings with us at the same time."

Cheng Zhiyuan stood up and walked to Qiu Bian, then parted one of the aluminum slats of the Venetian blind a little and peeked out.

The xenophobic consulate compound was dark, with only a few bulletproof lights shining at the base of the wall; the parking lot was empty.

"Xiao Zhao, the route from the American mainland to our side really can't bypass the Lu Ren border, so we've switched to the forest route."

"But why did Canada completely reject the option of using civilian aviation from the very beginning when it came to its domestic route? Do you know what that means?"

Zhao Yan, the deputy, placed the computer on his lap, pressed his fingers together slightly, and recalled the details of the plan he had been studying for a week. Yu Zi's pace slowed down noticeably.

"If you use a fake passport to travel on civilian routes, you must first depart from any major airport in Canada, such as Toronto Pearson or Montreal Trudeau."

"According to our current understanding of the Canadian border inspection process, all passengers holding foreign passports will be randomly checked by the Canada Border Services Agency before boarding. The random check rate is about four to six percent, which seems low, but for certain annual stays and ethnic groups, the actual selection rate is much higher."

"Christopher is in his fifties, white, has a leg injury, can't walk on his own, and needs a wheelchair to go through security."

"Wheelchair passengers have a separate security screening process at civilian airports. All metal objects must be removed from their person, and they will then undergo an additional manual inspection. All their luggage must also be scanned by hand."

"The customs system is networked."

"On routes from the Americas to East Asia, more than 60 percent of check-in counters automatically push passenger information to relevant departments in the United States via PNR broadcasts during check-in."

"He has business class and a passport, so he will be entered into the airline's regular passenger database and his flight segment will be recorded. The system will automatically report this the moment the check-in clerk scans his boarding pass."

"Even if he had our perfect fake passport, he was already over fifty years old and had never traveled with a fake identity before."

"If you put him under a sufficiently tricky interrogation, such as asking him which hotel he has stayed at recently, he may not be able to answer correctly every time."

"It is indeed possible that Pfizer has used US channels to put Christopher's name on a certain police list, although we have no evidence."

"If this situation really occurs, the system will automatically issue an alert when he swipes his passport."

"Moreover, his most dangerous aspect is not the exposure of his identity, but his emotions." Cheng Zhiyuan took over the conversation, walked to the table, picked up the enamel cup, then put it down, tapping his finger on the table.

Have you seen his file?

Zhao Yan said that he had read the few lines of information given to him by the higher-ups, but he did not know the specific details. He only knew that he had been framed by American companies and had been put into a state of bankruptcy.

"More than fifty years old, a renowned scientist who was once a resident of a ruined house whose leg was bitten by a coyote."

"Do you know what it means to steal from someone with a high level of education?"

Cheng Zhiyuan didn't emphasize the words, but his pronunciation was very accurate.

"This means that his spiritual self has been shattered."

"Under normal circumstances, the situation is alright because our people are always picking him up, coaxing him, and making promises to him."

"But if he were alone at Vancouver International Airport and faced a questioning by the Canada Border Services Agency, he might freeze, his palms would sweat, his eyes would dart around, and he would be taken to a small room next door if the customs officer asked him even one more question."

"He could break down in just five minutes."

Cheng Zhiyuan sat back down in his chair.

"Furthermore, the passenger list for general civilian flights is usually confirmed only an hour before departure and then sent back to the departure airport's border control for a final check."

"The Canadian authorities have the authority to order passengers to be prevented from boarding at any time during this period, and may even make arrests."

"We have no legal means to stop Canada from doing this."

The deputy paused for a moment.

"This is just the first step, something that happens before boarding."

"The first step, the aircraft itself."

"If a civil flight is required to make an emergency landing by the government of the destination or transit country during flight, the captain must comply with the international civil aviation conventions."

"If the Americans discover his fake passport and request Canadian air traffic control to make an emergency landing under the pretext of terrorism or transnational crime, the captain has no right to refuse."

"Once the plane crashes, the people will be taken away."

"These things are all unavoidable in the civil aviation system, because all records of civil flights are publicly available, transparent, and searchable."

"Therefore, the bottom line set by Guowu is very clear: avoid letting him deal with inspections alone at any public customs checkpoints as much as possible."

"We have already sacrificed too much for this operation, and we cannot gamble the success or failure of the entire operation, including getting on the plane, on the emotional control of a middle-aged man in his fifties."

Zhao Yan closed the draft and opened another encrypted file.

"So we used a specially modified civilian aircraft, piloted by a military-backed crew, to obtain diplomatic immunity."

"right."

Director Cheng gasped for breath. "How's the investigation going at the embassy in Ottawa?"

"The ambassador from the embassy personally went to the Canadian Ministry of Foreign Affairs to negotiate."

"An Air Force Boeing 747 will depart from Ottawa tonight under the pretext of picking up some diplomatic personnel from the Canadian Embassy for a rotational mission."

"According to the flight plan, it will land at Vancouver International Airport at 4:30 a.m., ostensibly for refueling, and to pick up the eight departing personnel reported by our Vancouver Consulate, before flying directly across the Pacific Ocean back to China."

"This is the standard procedure for diplomatic immunity." Director Cheng tapped the table.

"As soon as Christopher sets foot inside the gates of our consulate, this is Eastern territory."

"No Canadian law enforcement agency may enter without the written permission of the consular envoy, and the Canadian police have no authority to search us—not just theoretically, but with zero authority."

"Then, the diplomatic convoy at four in the morning."

"Two black sedans with the national flags on the front. According to the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations, diplomatic personnel are exempt from criminal, civil, and administrative jurisdiction."

"No level of law enforcement agency in Canada can stop, search, or impound a vehicle displaying a diplomatic license plate."

"The convoy departed from the consulate and drove directly into the military airport entrance attached to the cargo area of ​​Vancouver International Airport along the predetermined route."

""

"At this point, common law has become ineffective."

"The Boeing 747 parked there is from the Eastern Air Force. The aircraft configuration, call sign, and country of registration all match up."

"And then the aircraft itself."

"That aircraft is registered under the Civil Aviation Administration, but it is actually maintained and operated by the Air Force, which has sovereign immunity."

"According to international practice, Canadian customs officials do not have the right to board an aircraft belonging to another sovereign state for a search."

"It's not that they could search but chose not to; it's that they don't have that right."

"Only we know what people and what's on the plane."

"When departing, Canadian air traffic control can only verify the completeness of the flight plan and has no right to prevent boarding."

"Once the plane takes off, everything will be foolproof."

"Let alone Canadian police, even if Americans came in person, they wouldn't dare to do anything."

"Unless they want to completely break ties with us, they themselves want to be retaliated against by us and have their planes that take off from our territory inspected as well."

Cheng Zhiyuan watched Zhao Yan snatch the food and sat for a moment.

"This is the whole process."

"A fake passport puts all the risk on the agent and the actor's performance, while diplomatic immunity lets the system itself bear all the risk."

"Our state apparatus is a collective, and it is always more reliable than a single person."

At that very moment, Zhao Yan's computer beeped with a message notification sound.

Director Cheng stood up and looked at Qiu Hubian again. A gray Buick with a fake diplomatic license plate was slowly turning into the side gate of the consulate. The headlights swept across the surveillance camera on the wall and then went out.

"The vehicle from the Shihao team has arrived at the hospital," he said.

The deputy stood up, pushed the folding chair back, and began tidying up the table with the ginseng and teacups.

Director Cheng loosened his fingers from the curtain and turned around.

The red landline on the table rang once.

He glanced at his deputy.

The deputy tucked the laptop under his arm, opened the office door, and strode into the hallway.

Director Cheng picked up the receiver and put it to his ear.

"Bring him in," he said.

A brief reply came through the receiver, and then the call ended.

He put the receiver back on the landline, picked up the enamel mug on the table, drank the last sip of cold tea in one gulp, and then wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

The deputy has already instructed the consulate's field team downstairs to take the elevator from the Christopher side door directly to the medical room, bypassing the lobby and any external office areas.

Director Cheng placed the enamel mug next to the metal cabinet, zipped up his jacket, and walked out of the archives.

Around 3 a.m., at the medical room of the Canadian Consulate in Vancouver.

Christopher was gently woken up by a hand.

It wasn't the cold, hard tactical gloves that woke him; it was a warm hand with calloused palms that pressed against his arm through the blanket before pulling it away.

He opened his eyes.

The ceiling was a single piece of white plasterboard with a thin LED light strip embedded around the edge. The lights weren't all on; only the few strips near the door were lit, emitting a soft, milky white light.

This is no longer the forest on the Canada-US border.

No fir branches swayed overhead, no lichen drifted in the breeze, and no gravel rattled from under the SUV's chassis—

sound.

The room wasn't big, maybe a little over ten square meters.

A single bed was placed against the wall, and on the bedside table were the small lamp that Ichiran had turned off and Ichi's empty glass.

On the wall opposite the door, there was a square mirror. Below the mirror was a sink, and next to the sink was a white towel folded into a square.

The air smells of disinfectant and a very faint scent of laundry detergent.

"Professor Christopher." The voice rang out again.

He turned his head away.

The woman beside the bed was probably in her early thirties, about 1.65 meters tall. She was wearing a beige chunky knit sweater with the sleeves rolled up above her wrists, dark gray straight-leg trousers, and flat canvas shoes.

Her hair was just past her shoulders, with the ends slightly curled, and the color was a very deep black, typical of Asians.

Her face wasn't particularly beautiful, but the curve between her eyebrows and eyes was very gentle. Her nose wasn't high, her lips were thin, and when she smiled, the corners of her mouth curved upwards slightly. She had the kind of face that you would subconsciously choose to speak to if you asked for directions on the street.

She held a hot, purple, wet towel in her hand.

"Time to get up."

Christopher's throat moved; he was still a little groggy from just waking up. He stared at the woman for several seconds, then forcefully blinked, suddenly remembering something.

After she moved from Lao Li's SUV to the Buick, she was the woman who sat next to him in that car last night.

It was probably around midnight.

The SUV finally stopped at a place on the outskirts of Vancouver that he couldn't even name.

Old Li turned around and said something to him in the front seat, but he didn't hear it clearly. He only remembered that he was helped down from the back seat by the two beggars. The night air was pouring into his collar and made him shiver. His injured leg was pulled and hurt so much that he gasped for breath.

Then he saw another car.

A dark gray Buick minivan with diplomatic license plates was parked on a concrete road at the end of the road. The front door was open, and a dimly lit dome light illuminated the interior.

He was first helped into the back seat of the car, then the car door closed, and it was pitch black outside the car window.

Then came the sound of another door opening on the other side of the car. A strange woman sat down next to him, reached out and spread a wool blanket over his knees.

"Professor Christopher."

She called him that back then too, her voice as gentle as it is now, as if she had known him for a long time. "I'll take care of you for the rest of the journey. It'll probably take another half hour, so you should get some sleep first."

He still remembers his response at that time.

He stared at the unfamiliar Asian woman in the room, his mind still replaying what Old Li had said at the logging camp: "No law enforcement agency can stop us for miles around. Someone will shoot for us, someone will stop cars for us." Then he suddenly realized that everything these people did was planned in advance, including the young woman sitting next to him now.

"What exactly is your organization in the East?" he asked, his voice still wary.

"We've come to take you home," she said.

"Go home? My home—"

"Yes, go home. Don't think about anything right now, just rest. We can talk about it tomorrow."

Then she stopped talking.

She just sat quietly beside him, occasionally glancing to see if his blanket had slipped down, and the rest of the time she just looked at the darkness outside the car, as if she had done this kind of late-night pickup job many times before.

He was almost asleep when the Buick pulled into the side entrance of the consulate. He vaguely felt the car turn a corner and stop in front of a door, where someone brought a wheelchair. He was helped into the wheelchair and pushed into the elevator.

The elevator was brightly lit, and he caught his eye, seeing the woman standing behind him, one hand gently holding the handle of her wheelchair.

Then there was a small medical room with white ceramic tiles. There was a metal bunk bed, clean sheets, and a neatly folded inpatient gown.

A woman knelt down and carefully lifted his injured leg onto the bed, using two pillows to elevate his ankle.

"This is the consulate's medical room," she said. "You are safe now."

He asked a question.

He didn't remember what he asked, but it was probably something like, "What's your name?", "Whose subordinate are you?", or "Will you leave?"

He only remembered that the woman smiled, wrung out a hot towel for him, handed it to him to wipe his face, and then said, "My surname is Sun, you can just call me Xiao Sun. You don't need to worry about anything else, everything else will be taken care of."

He remembered.

"Thank you," Christopher said.

He sat up on the beggar's bed, took the hot towel that Xiao Sun handed him, and spread it on his face.

The hot, humid steam instantly penetrated all the pores of my face.

The sweltering heat of the night the coyotes tore through the tent, the biting purple chill outside the logging camp, the diesel smell from the engine in the off-road vehicle—all these lingering traces on the skin were wiped away with this towel.

After wiping his face, he folded the towel back up.

What time is it now?

"It's just past three in the morning." Xiao Sun took a new paper cup from under the bedside table, unscrewed the thermos on the table, poured hot water into it until it was about seven-tenths full, and handed it to him.

"Have some water. The plane takes off at 4:30, so we need to be in the car and ready to leave before 4:00."

Christopher took the paper cup; the water was very hot, and it burned his palms when he held it.

He took a small sip, and the hot water flowed down his throat into his stomach, warming his entire chest.

Xiao Sun opened the door, and a small canvas bag was brought in from outside the beggar's door. He placed it at the foot of the bed and opened it.

Inside was a set of neatly folded clothes: a dark blue wool sweater, gray casual trousers, a dark brown corduroy jacket, and a pair of brown soft-soled leather shoes, all of which had been washed and smelled faintly of soap.

"These were all prepared last night. The sizes were based on measurements from Seattle, so they should fit."

She took out her sweater and trousers and spread them out at the foot of the bed, then hung her corduroy jacket on the hook behind the door, and placed a new pair of socks on top of her shoes.

His movements were very practiced, like someone who had worked as a caregiver in a hospital.

"Drink some water to calm down first, then wash up and hang up your clothes. I'll take you to get something to eat."

"The restaurant prepared soy milk, steamed buns, and some pickled vegetables, all served hot."

Christopher put down his paper cup and stared at the outfit for a few seconds.

The sweater is a very old-fashioned style, with a small round neck, tightly knitted, no brand label, and it's not something you can buy in a department store.

"Who made the choice?" he said.

"You mean clothes?"

"right."

"I picked it."

Xiao Sun turned around, folded the canvas bag, and placed it by the door.

"I almost snatched it from you when I was picking it out for you, but your current status is that of a retired professor. You can't wear anything too new, nor can you wear anything too cheap. If it's too new, it looks like you just bought it, which might arouse suspicion; if it's too cheap, it would seem disrespectful. This slightly worn style is the most suitable."

Her words were very ordinary, as if there was nothing strange about it.

"Old professor," Christopher repeated the word.

"right."

Little Sun took an envelope out of his pocket, then pulled out two laminated ID cards and placed them on his bedside table.

"This is your temporary embassy staff ID. Your official identity is Secretary Xiao Xiaodong, No. 57 Well, a professor preparing for retirement."

She paused.

"My identity is your female lawyer, so please remember to call me Xiao Xiao when we're out."

Christopher picked up the ID and looked at it; it had his photo on it.

He didn't remember when the photo was taken; it was probably taken before the handover in Xiwu. Someone had found his previous identity information.

He looked about five years younger in the photo than he does now. His hair was grayish-white and not as sparse as it is now, and his face was a bit fuller.

The name on the document is "Xiao Xiaodong".

Who is Liu Xiaodong?

"He is a consulate staff member who does not actually exist."

"Normally this wouldn't happen if someone asked, but if someone does ask you why you're white, just say you have white ancestry but grew up in the East, so you use this name."

Christopher placed his documents on the bedside table and slowly stood up, supporting himself on the edge of the bed.

My injured leg hurt a little when I stepped on the padded board, but it was much better than yesterday.

The gauze had been used once, but last night when he was sleeping, Xiao Sun asked the on-duty nurse in the infirmary to disinfect it again. It was bandaged very tightly, and you could feel the rhythm of the blood pulsating in his veins.

He walked to the sink, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on his face.

I look much older in the mirror than when I was still in the lab.

His cheekbones were prominent, his eye sockets were deep, a layer of grayish-white stubble covered his chin, and there was a shallow scar on his left cheek, which had already scabbed over.

Her hair was soaked with sweat, a messy frizzy mess that stuck to her forehead.

But the person in the mirror was wearing a clean white uniform, with the collar neatly buttoned and not a single speck of mud on the sleeves.

He stared at the mirror for about ten seconds.

"Miss Sun."

"Um.

""

"I asked the guy in the SUV last night if Pfizer would chase us all the way to Canada."

"What did he say?"

"He didn't say. He just told me to go to sleep."

Christopher reached for a disposable razor by the sink, tore open the packaging, and turned on the tap to wet his chin.

The shaving foam is white and lemon-scented.

"Is it the one surnamed Li?" Xiao Sun asked from behind.

"What?"

"The person you asked about last night when we were crossing the forest, were you referring to the one from the place with the surname Li?"

"Do you know him?"

"We're on the same line, we're colleagues."

Christopher placed the razor against his right cheek and shaved down his cheek.

"I don't think you're complete colleagues," he said.

"Each of you is responsible for different things."

"The person who picked me up, the driver, the guide, and now the person taking care of me—every one of you has something missing."

"This was something you arranged on purpose."

Xiao Sun leaned against the door frame, still folding the towel he had just used, his expression blank.

She unfolded the towel, then folded it back into a square before speaking.

"Yes, it was arranged on purpose."

Christopher didn't say anything, he just continued shaving, his beard shaving down to his chin.

The skin exposed where the foam was scraped away was much more tender than the rough, inflated skin around it.

Xiao Sun looked at the old man shaving in the mirror and remained silent for a few seconds. Then she said something.

"But that doesn't stop me from taking care of you; there's no need for gaps in things here."

Christopher's razor hovered in mid-air.

He looked through the mirror at the Asian woman who appeared to be in her early thirties.

She was still clutching the towel in her hand, and a small section of loose thread was showing from the cuffs of her off-white knitted sweater. It wasn't a high-end item; it was probably the kind that cost a few dozen yuan in a regular export store.

She didn't seem like the "intelligence officer" he remembered; she looked more like one of his former young female colleagues who coordinated clinical work for the medical department at Pfizer's R&D center.

They don't talk much, but they're efficient and always know what you need better than you do.

In that instant, he thought of Leon Vance.

I remembered the young man wearing a gun mask and a baseball cap who crushed a coyote's neck in the ruins of a chemical plant.

He remembered that young man squatting in his tent, using a tourniquet to bind his leg, first flipping through his notebook, then confirming his identity, and finally carrying him to the car.

I didn't ask him what he wanted, I didn't negotiate with him, I didn't force him to sign anything, and I rescued him before that.

Then there was Atulx, that fat guy who spouted nonsense that could make any serious biologist vomit blood, but it was Atulx who tried to comfort him when he had just woken up.

According to Leon, he first learned about Dr. Thomas because of Atulx.

Then it's Lao Li's turn.

"You will make Pfizer regret this."

And then there's Little Sun here.

"That doesn't stop me from taking care of you."

He rinsed the razor under the tap and then turned off the water.

"Thank you," he said to the man who was grabbing the mirror.

It wasn't a polite thank you; the "thank you" he said most often this year was to strangers who gave him money.

This time it wasn't.

Little Sun, the beggar, picked up the dark blue wool sweater from behind the gate and came over to hand it to him.

"Please hang it up first."

"The restaurant is the third shop on the left at the end of the corridor. The soy milk has cooled down a bit, but it's perfect to drink now."

"The steamed buns are vegetarian. Considering your irregular eating habits lately, you shouldn't eat anything too oily this morning."

Her words were exactly the same as before.

But there was something different in her eyes.

It's not a policy, not a task, and not a provision of any emotional value.

As she watched Christopher shave, she suddenly wondered if, when her father was sixty, he had been thrown into the forest to be fed to wolves, would someone have handed him a hot towel?

But such a thing would never happen in her country.

Therefore, her care for Christopher was both something the state taught her and something she wanted to do herself.

Christopher put on the sweater, pulled down the hem, and the size was indeed just right.

He leaned against the wall, walked to the bedside, sat down, and began to put on the new socks.

His fingers trembled slightly as he fastened the edge of his socks. He wasn't actually cold; it was just that he hadn't worn a complete pair of socks in a long time.

Xiao Sun helped him take his coat off the hook and draped it over the bed. Then she put the two ID cards back into the envelope and placed it in the pocket of his coat.

"After you finish breakfast, we'll go directly to the side entrance; the caravan is already seated. Your notebook will be carried by the messenger through a different passage. We'll try our best not to worry you; just tell me you've eaten your fill."

"Then what."

"Then I went home."

Christopher put on his shoes, and as he bent down to tie them, his movements became awkward. Then, he took a deep breath, the kind of deep breathing that only an old man would do, and slowly exhale.

"Okay," he said.