Mireia stopped at a gas station halfway to Charleston, and Bernard got out, taking his tote bag with him. Lasoren was still inside. He picked up the phone and dialed the number the creature gave him.

A young male voice answered with clear enunciation so precise that Bernard almost thought he’d called a large corporate office, “Thank you for calling the residence of Dr. Zachary Maesera, speaking. How may I assist you, today?”

Following directives from the thing in his bag, Bernard said, “I have a severely injured exotic bird, sir, and I was told to call you.”

“As it happens, I’ll be able to handle this promptly. Could you provide a name and registration number?”

Without prompting, Lasoren said, “You ain’t been assigned one. Give ‘im mine. Loren Sanchez. Last six digits are 289-642.”

Bernard quoted the name and number back to the man on the phone.

“Have you contacted the registrar’s office?”

“That’s code,” Lasoren said, “He’s asking if I’ve talked to my boss. No. That’s the next call.”

Bernard relayed the message, and Dr. Maesera said, “Could you conveniently meet me in half-an-hour at the West Ashley Marina?”

“Fuck,” Lasoren muttered, “not there. . . . Fine, since you’re already headed that way, but tell him we need forty-five minutes.”

Bernard and the doctor agreed on a time, and the doctor told him what to look for.

They hung up, and Bernard placed the next call.

A chipper male voice answered, “Jack’s Winery and Fine Gifts, Ted speaking. How can I make your day today?”

Lasoren grumbled, “We’ve got a comedian for an operator, and I’m not in the mood. Tell him the same thing you told the medic, including the number.”

Bernard did as he was told.

“Ahhh that’s a shame. Will you be needing the full package?”

“Yes,” Lasoren said, “Full amenities, including transportation and lodging.”

Bernard quoted it back, and Ted said, “Transportation, too? Sounds like a rough time. We’ll send someone to look into that. Lodging was taken care of early this morning once we were sure of the location. Look for assistance by seven tonight, Eastern Daylight Savings, no later than eight. It looks like your manager is unavailable. Would you like to leave a message?”

“No, it’s fine,” Lasoren said, “I’ll call him later.”

Bernard told Ted, who then paused before he said, “Oh, what do you know . . . oh. It’s that guy. That case. I see. Very well then, Mr. Sanchez, knows what to do. Best of luck to him, and to you Mr. Sparker.”

“Wait, what?” Bernard exclaimed upon hearing his name.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“That moron,” Lasoren growled.

“Ahh, begging your pardon. Slip of the tongue. Excuse me. Best of luck, then!”

The line went dead with a notable “click”.

Bernard stood there for a moment, glanced up and saw someone waiting on the phone, and walked away, growling under his breath, “Now what the fuck did he mean by that?”

“Later,” Lasoren said, “I promise I’ll explain later. Next time I see Toronto HQ, I’m ‘a find that guy and put my tail through his ankles. He ain’ gonna walk for a month. Best scanner in the galaxy won’ save him the agony when I’m done.”

Once Bernard was back in the car, he threw bag into the back seat, causing Lasoren to yip in pain.

Mireia stared at him “What on Earth was that for?”

“He’s hiding shit, ‘Rei,” Bernard snapped, “And every time I ask about it, he just keeps saying ‘later, I’ll tell you later’. I don’t like it.”

“The marina,” Lasoren said, “We’re supposed to meet at a large yacht. Doc said we couldn’t miss it. It should be a safe place where we can talk.”

“We’re supposed to meet his cousins for lunch,” Mireia said, “We’re pressed for time.”

“The hotel,” Bernard suggested, “He’s telling us tonight.”

He told her about the conversation they’d just had, and watched Mireia’s eyes narrow as he talked, and she started her car and pulled out of the parking lot.

“We don’t have time for any of this,” she said, “We can’t go meet this doctor and meet Jez and Rubie at the same time.”

“Sure we can,” Bernard said, “We can stop just long enough to drop this guy off and never hear from him again. We’ll be fifteen minutes late, tops. Just long enough for them to start to wonder what happened to us. Then we apologize for being late, and we go on with life like nothing’s happened.”

“Time. . . ,” Lasoren said distantly, “such a strange thing.”

Bernard drew a long breath, let it out, and glanced behind him, “Everything about this is fucking strange, and you’re trying my patience. Can you at least explain that one?”

“Well . . . it’s just that you’ve been talking about time all morning. Time left to get the shrimp to the house. Time to pack the car. Time to drive into town. Time it takes to make a phone call. Time to check in with your hotel, meet with your cousins, eat lunch, drive to West Ashley and back downtown. It . . . how do I explain this . . . it’s a very linear way of looking at time. As if it moves in a predictable fashion. Hours. Days. Months. Years.”

“That’s how time works,” Mireia said.

“But it doesn’t,” Lasoren argued, pulling himself out of the bag, “I’d almost be inclined to agreed with you. I’m still very young, and I’ve become accustomed to your way of measuring the days. But if you asked my parents, time is cyclical, bound to the rhythms of planetary seasons. Your linear, numbered concept of time is an efficient way of measuring day-to-day tasks, but it would be meaningless to them. If you asked a physicist, they’d tell you that time is relative to gravitational pull.”

“In either fashion, it’s still a singular forward path to the person experiencing it,” Mireia answered, “Looking at it any other way won’t change how long it takes to get to Charleston from Bernie’s house. Or how long it takes ice to melt in this weather.”

“What if it isn’t a singular path, but a network of slipstreams? We’d merely live in their flows like so many branches in a river. Each bound to the river’s path on our own separate journeys. Or fish, maybe. I’d like to think we have at least some control over our lives.”

Mireia peered at the tiny clock over her dash. “I’d like to think I have control over mine, enough that your path’s journey is about to take another route. Bern, I’m going to drop you off with Jez and Rubie and I’ll take this thing to the marina—”

“I’m not a ‘thing,’” Lasoren said, “I’m a male Saurian, if you want the human word for it. I’m not allowed to use our word.”

“Who’s going to hear you?” she snapped irritably.

“Not everything in this galaxy is large enough to see!” he snapped back, causing her to tap her brakes reflexively. She slammed her foot back down on the accelerator, swerved, regained control of her car, and shifted gears hard, earning muttered commentary from the back seat. Something about stalling her engine.

She cast a furious look at Bernard, “I’ve got four radios. Pass ‘em out—”

“Those things are basically useless Downtown,” he protested.

“They’re good enough within a block or two in case y’all get separated, ‘cause I know how your cousins are. If I’m not back in twenty minutes, get started without me. If you don’t hear from me within an hour, call the cops. Channel 17. I don’t care what else he’s got to say. I’m going to get rid of him.”