“You always were hard to find, Arthur,” the voice said.

It was Charles Whitmore.

My father did not answer right away.

His fingers began to tap the keys again, faster than before.

“The relay is jumping,” Ward whispered, pointing his pen at the monitor.

“I have it,” my father said.

He struck the enter key with a heavy thud.

The blinking cursor stopped.

The white letters on the screen scrambled, replaced by columns of green data running upward.

“You’re too late, Charles,” my father said to the phone.

“I built this town,” Charles said, his voice crackling through the small speaker. “You are a gardener.”

“I was a gardener,” my father replied.

He pressed another key, and the green data froze.

“The transfer is stopped,” my father said to Ward.

“And the backup?” Ward asked.

“Copying to your secure server now,” my father said.

The progress bar on the tablet in Ward’s hand jumped to eighty percent, then ninety, then one hundred.

“We have it all,” Ward said.

The phone on the desk went dead.

My father picked it up, slid it into his pocket, and stood up.