The Senator’s voice was not loud, but it had the weight of fifty years of political survival behind it.

Charles turned his head, his mouth dropping open.

“What did you say?” Charles asked.

“I said shut up,” the Senator repeated.

He walked closer to me, his umbrella tilted to block the wind.

The rain beat a steady rhythm against the black fabric above his head.

He stopped five feet away.

“Arthur,” the Senator said. “I thought you were in the ground.”

“A lot of people did,” I said.

“They told us the entire Orion team was decommissioned in ninety-eight,” the Senator said.

“Most of them were,” I said.

“But not you,” the Senator said.

“I found a quiet place to live,” I said. “Until your friends here made it noisy.”

The Senator looked back at Charles, who was standing frozen in the headlights.

“Who is he, Donald?” Charles asked, his voice losing its edge, replaced by a thin, sharp anxiety. “Who is this man?”

The Senator turned back to me, ignoring the question.

“You have the phone,” the Senator said.

“I do,” I said.