Page 33 of Hurricane Irene

“You left the legal pad,” Calder said at last.

Lenora looked up from the summons.

“I left blank paper.”

“You wrote on it.”

“Pressure marks are words to anyone patient enough to look.”

“There were words,” Calder said. “Bodies. Reports. Baton Rouge.”

“There was also your glass,” Lenora said. “And Voss’s fingerprints on half the denial files. If we are measuring carelessness, I would like a larger board.”

The air from the vents warmed so gradually that none of them noticed until Voss pressed his palm against the dashboard. The fan still roared, but the cold had vanished. Within ten miles, the windows trapped the morning heat and returned it to them with interest.

“The air conditioning is broken,” Voss said.

“Thank you,” Calder said. “I assumed the Gulf had moved into the glove compartment.”

Lenora lowered her window. Wind filled the cabin with truck exhaust, paper noise, and the heavy smell of marshland. Voss tried his window and discovered it would travel only halfway down.

“Of course,” Voss said. “Even the window has chosen a side.”

Behind them, Nathan watched the cabin windows lower one by one.

“Phase two has achieved ventilation,” he said.

“Do not call it phase two,” Joseph said. “It makes us sound organized.”

“We are organized,” Travis said.

“That is why we should hide it,” Joseph said.

The temperature gauge began climbing after the Atchafalaya Basin. Calder noticed it, ignored it, and kept driving until a warning light glowed red beside the speedometer.

“The engine is hot,” Lenora said.

“I can see that,” Calder said.

Steam did not appear, but the vehicle began to smell faintly of hot metal and old coolant. Calder drove another mile before the gauge touched the red. He pulled into a crowded service plaza with such force that a family carrying breakfast sandwiches scattered from the crosswalk.

“That was subtle,” Lenora said.

“You told me to stop,” Calder said.

“I did not tell you to declare war on pedestrians.”

A mechanic in a blue work shirt listened to the engine, examined the tire, and studied the warning lights. His expression became professionally neutral in the way of men preparing to charge someone who had ignored every warning available.

“You have cooling trouble, another tire that should not be trusted, and a windshield crack that is going to spread,” he said. “You can wait, or you can call a tow truck somewhere else.”

They all looked at the windshield. A thin white line had appeared near the lower passenger corner, no longer than a finger. As they watched, heat and vibration carried it another inch.

“When did that happen?” Voss asked.

“Perhaps when the vehicle began disassembling itself out of shame,” Lenora said.

The mechanic estimated two hours if the replacement parts arrived on the next delivery. Calder argued about the estimate until the mechanic added fifteen minutes without explanation. Voss took the FEMA folder. Lenora took her handbag. They crossed the plaza toward a low restaurant whose sign promised breakfast all day and whose windows promised no privacy at all.