by Clara Ward
Reggie looked at his photos on the wall. Only one showed Sarah. She didn’t like seeing herself in pictures. But they showed the school and roads they’d helped build with the Peace Corps. They showed the village girls who had flocked to Sarah day after day. They showed the cows no Hindu would eat and a well that no longer gave water. They showed the village cell phone and computer that ignited Reggie’s ambitions for Pronoia International.
None of their history seemed real since Sarah disappeared. It tangled with his imaginings of himself, the grieving boyfriend called on to identify her body at the morgue, or the jealous former lover catching a glimpse of her years later on someone else’s arm.
Reggie almost wanted to be jealous, to play the part of one spurned. But he couldn’t really believe Sarah would run off with someone else, not without a word. He remembered their last week in India.
“So, have you and Phil decided where to start?” Sarah lay next to him in bed, red and amber quilted spread heaped at the bottom, mosquito net sagging inward. The air hung damp and still, steaming with spices and rot. Both of them lay naked on their backs, too sweaty to touch more than fingertips.
He imagined himself as a member of the intelligentsia, entering a part of his life where ideas would draw followers, sculpt a quiet revolution. “We have leads in key cities. Phil wants to introduce me to some people, get the unofficial news from around the U.S.”
“I could find temp work for a while, until you choose a place. Unless you want me to come along? I could look for office space or transcribe stuff for you.”
As a mature, forward-thinking innovator Reggie said, “Sarah, you can’t plan your life around me. Think about what you want, who you want to be.”
She rolled up to sitting, silently running one finger down his damp arm. “I could be who I want anywhere. If you want me, I’ll go with you.”
He looked up at her from his back, too hot to even move his arm. “We can keep in touch, get together sometimes, but life will be different back in the states. I’ll need to put everything I have into my work, and that wouldn’t be fair to you.”
Sarah climbed through the netting then, wet a cloth to rinse the sweat from her face and body. There was no point in drying off with the heat that day. Reggie didn’t know how she found the energy to move. He watched her pull on clothes and leave, all the time seeing himself as the big, practical man, making the only responsible decision.
It wasn’t until he was back in the states and realized there were no woman half as interesting as Sarah, that he replayed the scene, casting himself as the typical American guy, afraid of commitment and not appreciating what he had.
A month later, he convinced Phil to base Pronoia in Sacramento; it was the capital of a relatively progressive state, a fine location for their work.
He called Sarah for lunch, as if he’d chosen her city by chance. She leaned her elbows on a white restaurant tablecloth, and told him about her work at a group home and coaching gymnastics as if she were a surf and he a lord. She let him back into her life as if he’d never hurt her, as if she’d never expected to be treated any better. And somehow, he never switched the roles, never went down on his knees and begged his lady’s pardon.
Now Reggie didn’t know if he’d see her again. He pulled on a boat neck sweater, poured the last of the coffee into his cup, and headed down the street to work.
“Reggie Malone, Pronoia International. Can I help you?” Reggie spoke toward the speaker phone trying not to rustle the project overrun analysis he was folding.
“Hi Reggie. This is Scott with PAD. We met last fall at the Ashland conference?”
“Sure. How are you doing?”
“Fine, fine. Look, I don’t want to say too much now, but what’s your policy on stock donations? Do you sell immediately?”
“Usually, yes. But we are flexible if the donor has special—”
“No, no. How fast are you? If I fax a transfer form to you without any notice or special instructions, what will happen?”
“During exchange hours, I can turn it over in minutes, half an hour at the most.”
“Great. Here’s my fax number. Send me whatever forms you need for a stock donation. I can’t promise you anything, of course.”
“Certainly, I appreciate you thinking of us.”
“Sure, Reggie. Keep up the good work.”
Scott hung up and Reggie stared for a moment at the fax number on his phone screen. There had been a definite subtext to that conversation. Was PAD in trouble? Serious enough trouble that their stock might crash and their CEO wanted to siphon some out to a charity with an immediate sell policy? But it couldn’t be a hostile takeover or he’d be holding on to the stock. Maybe a lawsuit with real teeth? Could someone finally bring down the company that coined the term Personal Access Device? A company that owned the only private global satellite network, bandwidth rights in almost every country, and a private island that was all but recognized as a sovereign country?
PAD’s business model allowed for perpetual lawsuits. They’d survived almost a decade as the only provider of truly anonymous global telecom with their hybrid satellite/cellular phones and their ability to reset their SIM card ID’s according to an algorithm only they could trace. When Reggie started college everyone in the counter culture had a PAD. It soon became illegal to sell them in the U.S. and other uptight countries, but enough of Europe and Asia valued communications immune to U.S., U.N., and Chinese spying that the company survived. What would fill the niche if PAD died?
Reggie also wondered for a moment how much stock Scott might send their way. He checked the stock price. It was down ten percent in the last week, but that certainly didn’t reflect the kind of concerns Reggie was entertaining. If Scott sent him stock and he sold fast enough . . .
Reggie shoved the paper he was holding into an envelope and set his phone to interrupt him high priority if Scott called, faxed, or emailed at any time.
Noon on Wednesday meant pizza with Phil at Pizza Pop. Reggie had no idea why his fifty-year-old business partner with cropped gray hair, subdued Hawaiian shirts, and Birkenstocks had such an ingrained pizza routine. It was good California pizza, but he had to wonder if Phil didn’t also fancy the owner, “Pop.”
Reggie and Phil walked down the sunny sidewalk from Pronoia inspecting the youth culture near the capital. Reggie wondered for the umpteenth time how he could harness teenage angst to power a progressive microeconomy. Maybe some video game with advanced sim characters interacting on a global scale—
“I bet you don’t even get the reference on that kid’s shirt,” Phil muttered.
The “kid” was probably eighteen, with well-defined muscles and a rather tight black t-shirt. Scrawled as if in chalk on a blackboard was, “This is my soccer mom,” with a picture of a spread-eagled stick figure, hair standing on end and eyes sprung out like slinkies. Beneath that was, “This is my soccer mom on drugs,” and a picture of the same stick figure dancing and shaking her hair back. On the bottom it said, “Decriminalize marijuana now.”
Reggie said, “Well, I understand the retro ad trend for issues that have been around a while, and I know the legalization of cannabis is still a political football at times.”
“Yeah, but that image was a spin off from before the war on drugs. They used to have public health ads showing an egg and saying “This is your brain.” Then they showed a fried egg and said, “This is your brain on drugs.”
Reggie gave Phil an incredulous look.
“Seriously, I think it predated Reagan.”
Reggie was just biting into his triple mushroom with Thai basil when Pop motioned him over to the counter. Pop was a big guy, just going gray and soft. He was wearing a red and white checked apron and holding out the phone.
Why would anyone call Reggie on the phone at Pizza Pop? But Reggie went to take the call.
“Don’t react. This might sound nuts, but you may be watched and your phone may be bugged. I was going to leave you out of this, and
I probably still should. But well, Reggie, I miss you.”
Sarah was talking fast. Reggie tried to not react. He leaned onto the counter, as if he always received calls at the local pizza place. He imagined himself in a leather jacket, leaning against a jukebox in some long ago diner. If Sarah was really worried about surveillance, calling this way might make sense. She knew he ate here with Phil every Wednesday and the number was all over the TV ads. But what kind of trouble could justify this?
“’Miss’ doesn’t begin to describe my side of it. What’s going on?”
“Our government’s after me, officially the CDC, though not for any reason you’d expect. Genetic persecution is real. But if I tell you more, you’ll be in at least as much trouble as I am.”
“If you told me you’d have to shoot me?”
“I’ve ditched my phone and car, everything that might have GPS. I can probably never go back to the U.S., but I, I had to at least call you.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“Someone has to.”
“Thanks. But we can fight this. I have—”
“It’s not like that. I really shouldn’t have called you—”
“Do you want to offend me? I’m yours. I would do anything for you. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Reggie, I love you, but there really are battles we can’t win. So far I’m just trying to stay alive, well, to stay free. I want you with me, but you’d lose everything: job, money, stuff, anything tied to the U.S. at the very least. And they might keep hunting us elsewhere. I don’t know. Think about it. I’ll tell you how to meet me, but then promise you’ll really think it over first?”
“This is crazy. You have to tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t. Knowing could cost you everything, and you’d be trapped there.”
“No one would know if you told me.”
“They’ll know. That’s why I can’t tell you. Anyway, if you want to meet me, go to the place we first had our names carved together. This time a week from now, okay? Be prepared to lose everything you can’t carry casually on your person.”
“I need to know more. I’m sure there are arrangements I can make. The CDC doesn’t have that kind of pull.”
“It’s more than just the CDC. It’s spies and state secrets and stuff you wouldn’t believe. If you really want to come, try not to be followed and ditch all your GPS. But you have a whole life to live there, and you do a lot of good things. So think about it before you throw that away. I should go. They’ll get suspicious.”
“You didn’t call to tell me not to come.”
“I called because I’m selfish and weak.”
“Not likely. I’ll think first, but I’ll be there. This all seems much too interesting.”
“You’re hopeless and impossible.”
“I can’t be selfish and weak, too?”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
Reggie set down the phone. Pop nodded at him and raised an eyebrow. Reggie nodded back and tried to smile reassuringly. He walked to the table where Phil was eating.
“Well, was it something about Sarah?”
“No, nothing real. Let’s say it was an over-imaginative friend who thought she knew something.”
Phil continued to eat in silence. Reggie started chewing and wondered how much of what Sarah said he could believe. Could the government really be after her? Could they really be spying on him? He wouldn’t put it past Sarah to go insane. She was very high strung to begin with. But somehow, he didn’t think she was delusional. He was sure she wasn’t lying. Perhaps she was overly paranoid. She’d always had strong feeling about genetic privacy. Had she been keeping something secret all this time, something she knew the government might want to control? But what? Obviously she wasn’t gay or criminally aggressive, the usual political targets. If she carried genes for autism, dyslexia, or schizophrenia, she would hardly be hunted in a secret government pogrom. Maybe she was a mental code breaker or something along those lines? She’d certainly demonstrated a talent for languages while they were in India. And she had a very good sense of direction and memory for floor plans and city layouts. Still, she’d never seemed extraordinary about any of it.
“Hey, Reggie, don’t think so hard, you’ll hurt yourself.” Phil had finished his pizza and exchanged a few meaningful looks with Pop. Now he was gazing out the window at signs posted on a lamppost. In addition to numerous rooms for rent, there was one for computer tutoring signed “AI”. What some people would believe. Hmm, perhaps he was being hypocritical.
Reggie realized that if he couldn’t be honest with Phil, he should at least try to be social. “You think my brain’s that easily damaged?”
“Fragile as an egg.”
For an hour on Friday night, Reggie convinced himself he wasn’t going. The whole phone conversation seemed unreal. Reggie streamed nouveau punk music, not because he liked it, but because he wanted to bang his head. He played it loud and the neighbor below retaliated with psychedelic rock and live drums. Reggie turned his music down, knowing better than to fight with a drummer. A courteous silence ensued, and Reggie knew he was going to follow Sarah.
Over the weekend, he packed all his stuff into boxes. It was surprisingly easy. He set out twelve boxes to form a grid in the living room. Boxes he’d want if he ended up in a tropical climate he marked with a red line. He almost marked the cold weather items with blue but decided that was too traditional and used black instead. Packages he’d most want in a third world economy he marked with a three. Anything with GPS he set aside to donate. It was all outdated anyway, each the latest fad to explore for a month. He ranked the priority of boxes within each economy/climate type alphabetically.
Sarah’s fabrics he ranked very high and his photos very low, partly out of devotion, but also because he was tired of the photos. He set the picture with Sarah in it aside, along with the two pillowcases she’d made. Even traveling light, he had to bring something that each of them cherished. And the pillowcases could always be stuffed with their clothes to give a bit of comfort while living rough.
His billowing self-satisfaction faded as he reconsidered his role as devoted boyfriend. What if he was instead Sancho Panza, tagging along with a crazy person to avoid his own responsibilities? Part of him clamored for the adventure, for sudden change and risk, regardless of what was happening to Sarah.
He packed good insect repellent and some water purification tablets. Best to be healthy, even if charging at windmills.
Online Tuesday, Reggie transferred half his assets into international stocks with accounts based outside the US. If Sarah’s troubles turned out to be exaggerated, he’d lose a bit in transaction fees and risky economies. But his choices all reflected his political ideals; so that was okay.
At four o’clock Tuesday he left an envelope on his desk for Phil, on the assumption Phil wouldn’t look around until Reggie failed to show up the next day. He tried to be as fair as he could without giving away why he was leaving. He merely said he needed a sabbatical for personal reasons. He left notes for whoever took over his duties as treasurer and board member, and a signed paper giving up his stake in the organization if he failed to return within two months. He pulled the SIM card out of his cell phone and left the rest in a barrel Pronoia kept in the lobby for just such donations. Part of their business was refurbishing cell phones for use in unwired places.
Carrying a daypack with two pillowcases, one photograph, and a few necessities, he went out to hail a cab to the airport.
April 9, 2025 – Montego Bay, Jamaica
Reggie cleared customs in Jamaica at ten on Wednesday morning. Thus far, there had been no indication that anyone was following him or noting his presence. He’d used three short air flights rather than one to make his trail harder to follow, and also to make it less suspicious when he paid cash for his tickets. But he’d departed from Miami and landed in Montego Bay under his own passport. He could play the fugitive to humor his girlfriend, but he
wasn’t ready to break international laws, at least not yet.
His clothes were rumpled, but that was why he’d chosen dark nubby cotton. He made a quick stop in the airport restroom to comb his hair and shave then negotiated with a taxi for a ride to the open-air market. He knew his timing would be close, but Jamaica was no place to be in a hurry.
The casual blocking of roads and the smell from petroleum-fueled cars hadn’t changed since his last taxi ride in Jamaica. But cell phones and holo-ads had arrived with a vengeance, a cartoon exaggeration of U.S. cities. A street corner might project a fashion model strutting above pedestrians heads, but even if passers-by looked up, they were all talking to someone not present, using a visible phone or not. Even better were the people talking on phones beneath swirling holographs of competing phones.
The market was a ghastly tourist trap. Thousands of little booths huddled together sporting flashy fabric roofs or kitchy bamboo poles. No holo-ads though. Reggie liked the shopkeepers who called out to him about t-shirts, hats, and GPS-protected jewelry. He knew there were ways around the GPS security. Perhaps if he was to live on the lam, he would learn to hack the chips. With pseudo-professional curiosity, he wondered which items for sale had already been hacked. Then he glanced at a newsstand to laugh at the limited and outdated collection. His hand clutched automatically for his discarded cell phone with its personalized news updates. It was isolating to have no news or interruptions for so many hours.
Moving alone through the chattering crowd, Reggie found he enjoyed the scent of overripe tropical fruit and even the stench of cigarettes so rare back in California. As he sauntered through the massive market, he couldn’t help spotting an outstanding batik shirt for Sarah. It was black with turquoise in the few places where wax had not been poured and the many places where wax had been intentionally cracked. It was darker than Reggie would have chosen on his own, but three years with Sarah had taught him to avoid too much vibrant color, no matter how well it set off her eyes and hair.
