riving it off the lot is a dream. The de Ville’s tires don’t touch the pavement. They roll on cottony clouds. On the whorls of his cigarette smoke. On the bouncy curls of the girls giving him, and his car, lusty looks at every stoplight. All he’d have to do is open the door and they’d pile inside. Happily, willingly, and knowing their place: the backseat. The American Dream—he’d thought it was lost. Misplaced in the boxes from the move. But wouldn’t you know it? Those clever boys in Detroit had managed to build it out of steel. All you had to do, mister, was pony up the cash, and it was yours.

Plenty of choicer parking spots exist at Occam, but Strickland picks the one on the end. Everyone who parks will see the Caddy. Even the buses ferrying service staff will have to pass it. He gets out, squats beside the teal beauty, inspects it. A blemish of dirt near the wheels. Some grit on the front fender. He takes a handkerchief and buffers the spots until they gleam. He feels better than he did this morning. Lainie’s got a secret, and that’s unacceptable. But the car helps. The car is a partial solution. He pulls out the bottle of pills and knocks a few into his mouth. There’s another solution, an even better one, inside Occam.

His mood is optimistic enough that he doesn’t bark at the janitors smoking on the loading dock instead of the upper lobby. They toss their butts and scatter. Strickland manages a grin. So what? Let the rank and file blow off a little steam. He even picks up the broom they left lying there and props it against the wall. He enters Occam via his key card and ambles down a bustling hall. Scientists, administrators, assistants, cleaners. Is everyone looking at him? He’s pretty sure they are. And why not? He feels like the de Ville. Huge and shining. Gobbling up the road and everything on it.

The second solution is Elisa. She doesn’t get in until midnight. Strickland keeps himself good and medicated until then. He’ll cut back on the pills, he will. Just not today. Every task he selects is spiked with anticipation. He dusts the security monitors with the same gentle motions he used on the Caddy. He tracks down a puffy-eyed Hoffstetler just so he can boast about the coming vivisection. He finds a cardboard box and gets a head start on collecting personal items from his desk. He pictures Occam, and Baltimore, diminishing in the Caddy’s rearview mirror. Washington, too. Is that Elisa in the seat beside him? If Lainie’s going behind his back, why can’t he do the same? He and Elisa will drive until General Hoyt can never find him.

Twelve fifteen, he taps the intercom.

“Could you find Miss Elisa Esposito and send her on over to Mr. Strickland’s office? I made me a little spill.”

A spill. He supposes he should make one. He looks about, sees the bag of hard candy. He doesn’t need all that candy. Not until he gets off the pills anyway. He gives the bag a flap. Watches the balls race into dark corners like green mice. It’s a little vigorous; they roll pretty far. What if she doesn’t buy it? He laughs once and feels his stomach flip. He’s nervous. He hasn’t felt nervous about a woman in a while.

A single knock at the door. He puts on a big grin and looks up. There she is, prompt as a schoolgirl and decked out in janitorial grays. Mop held like a bō staff and chin tilted down in the classic posture of mistrust. He can feel cool air on his back molars. Is his grin too wolfish? He tries to shrink it. It’s like relaxing a stretched rubber band. It still might fire off, shoot across the room if he’s not careful. He’s not used to handling grins.

“Hello, there, Miss Esposito. How are you tonight?”

The girl is as taut as a cat. After a moment, she touches her chest, then fins her hand outward. Strickland sits back in his chair. A scintillating rush passes through his head. It’s hope. He’s forgotten how it feels. He’s made so many mistakes. Getting involved with Hoyt. Letting Lainie stray, possibly out of reach. Right now, though, right here under the monitors’ soft, dim light, there’s a chance. Elisa is everything he needs. Quiet. Controllable.

Elisa extends her neck into the room and looks about. This dings Strickland’s serenity. She looks as if expecting a trap. Why would she think that? He went out of his way to wrap new bandages over his unsightly fingers and to stow the Howdy-do out of sight under the desk. He gestures at the floor.

“No need for the mop. I only spilled some candy. Rolled right out of the bag. Don’t want it to attract bugs. Pretty easy little job. Guess I could’ve done it myself. Except I got a bunch of stuff to do. That’s why I’m here so late. Paperwork.”

There is no paper on his desk. He should have thought of that. While Elisa consults her cart, he extracts a random file from his desk. Elisa enters the room with dustpan and brush held like nunchucks. She’s as observant as a cat, too. Her eyes are on the file he’s suddenly holding. He doesn’t like that, feels caught in a lie. But he does like her looking at him. She kneels in a corner to brush up a candy. Looks good doing it, too. Strickland feels a surge of power. Same as he did from the vibrations of the Caddy’s V-8. Power windows. Power brakes. Power steering. Just plain power.

“I’m not real used to these late hours, I guess. Get tired and clumsy. I guess you’re used to it, though, huh? It’s morning for you. You’re probably full of energy. Hey, you want some candy? Not from the floor, I mean. I still got some here in the bag.”

She’s in front of the desk now, crouched between the chairs. She looks up, holds his eyes for a few seconds. The gray monitor light flatters her. Her hair is storm clouds. Her face a lambent silver. The scars on her neck two glowing lines of nightsurf. He loves those scars. He wonders if there are other places on a woman’s body where scars might look as pretty. Lots of them, probably. Elisa shakes her head. No candy, no thank you. She starts to look away, but Strickland doesn’t want to lose sight of those scars.

“Hey, hold on. I’ve got a question.” On cue, one comes to him. “When you say you’re mute—well, I guess you didn’t say it. The Negro woman said it. You can’t say anything.” He laughs. She doesn’t. Why not? It’s a harmless joke. “Anyway, I’ve been wondering. Is it a hundred percent? I mean, if you get hurt, do you make a noise? Not that I’m planning on hurting you.” He laughs. Again, no reaction. Why won’t she relax? “Some mutes, you know, they squawk a little. I was just wondering.”

The words don’t come out perfect. He’s not given to pleasantries. He’s no Dr. Bob Hoffstetler, rattling off all the reasons he’s so damn brilliant. Still, the question deserves a nod, a gesture, something. Instead, Elisa turns away, gets back to her task. From the sound of it, as quickly as possible. Strickland takes a second to think. If anyone else ignored him, they’d regret it. This janitor, though, it only augments her blissful silence. He’s left staring at her backside. Tough to get a sense of it under that uniform, but he figures it’s good enough. Definitely good enough if she keeps wearing shoes like that. The shoes are leopard patterned. Leopard patterned. If she’s not wearing them for his enjoyment, then whose?

Each candy cracks when it hits the dustpan. Like twigs cracking in the jungle, the approach of a predator. Strickland stands up, paces before the monitors to shake it off. Right away, Elisa rises to her feet. She’s either done or done trying, and bolts for the door, but can’t move very fast. Candy rolls all over the dustpan, a balancing act fit for a circus. Strickland blocks the door with his right arm. Elisa pulls up short, the green candies clacking like bronchitic lungs.

“I know how it sounds,” he says. “Me, who I am. You being you. But we’re not that different. I mean—who do you have? Your file says you don’t have nobody. And me, I guess it’s not the same for me, but it feels—what I’m trying to say is that I feel the way you do. I figure we both got things in our lives we’d change if we could. You know?”

Strickland can’t believe it, but there it is. He’s raising his left hand, touching one of the neck scars. Elisa’s whole body stiffens. She swallows hard. A birdie pulse palpitates her jugular. He wishes he could feel its throb, but his fingers are bloated, bandaged, one of them pinched numb by a wedding ring. The ring Elisa presented to him right here in this office. He switches hands, traces a neck scar with his index finger, half-closes his eyes, gives into his senses. The scar is soft as silk. She smells so clean, like bleach. Her frightened breath purrs like the Caddy.

In the Amazon, his party found the cadaver of a marsh deer, its antlers tangled in the ribs of a jaguar. The índios bravos had supposed that the two beasts had been locked together for weeks prior to dying, a grotesque crossbreed. That’s him and Elisa, Strickland thinks. Two opposites, trapped together. Either they find a way to work together to break free, or both of them wither to bones. Female brains, he knows, require time to think. He lets his arm slide down the door frame. Elisa doesn’t wait. She plunges outside, unloads the dustpan into the trash, grabs and wheels her cart. She’s leaving, she’s leaving.

“Hey,” he calls.

Elisa pauses. In the brighter lights of the hall, her cheeks are pink, the scars red. Strickland feels a swirl of panic, loss, and frustration. He forces a smile, tries to mean it.

“I don’t mind you can’t talk. That’s what I want to say. I even kind of like it.” A good-natured entendre pops into his mind. Is it a permissible one? Will she respond positively to it? His head is dizzy from pills, and he doesn’t dare miss the opportunity. His rubber-band grin stretches again, close to snapping. “I bet I could make you squawk. Just a little?”