Page 7 of Exit Party

“I’m Felix.”

“Ari. Nice to meet you.”

A truck was pulling up, and she saw the way Felix’s attention was drawn to it. She sat on the plastic lawn chair by her door, and carefully didn’t look at the two men who got out of the truck, although she felt their eyes on her. They disappeared into Felix’s room, emerged a short time later with two black duffel bags, and drove away. The truck was painted with the thin blue stripe of the Blue Night Militia—why were they called that? Some long-dead meme, probably—and then after some time Felix came back out.

“Guess I missed the sunset,” he said.

“I’m afraid so.” Ari angled her chair to face him. “Felix,” she said, “obviously I don’t know the details of your operation, but if you happen to be hiring, I’m looking for a job.”

“I’m not hiring,” he said, “but as it happens, I know someone who is.”

“Militia?” she asked.

“That a problem?”

“No.”

“Tell me about yourself,” he said.

“I’ve been living this version of my life for a few months. Living in motels, working retail. But I got laid off and I need to find something else.”

“And before that?”

“Retail. Waitressing. Dishwashing. Whatever I could find. But there was another version of my life, a long time ago, where I had an interesting business in New York City.” All these years and lives and collapsing versions of the world later, it was like talking about a stranger. “It wasn’t that long after the 9/11 attacks, so immigration was a problem for a lot of people. I provided my clients with US passports.”

Felix whistled softly. “Tell me more.”

“Do you have a passport?”

“Sure.”

“Then you know how it works. How it worked, I guess, when the United States was still a country. Wherever you went to get your passport, the human element was important. A clerk signed off on the application, checked your ID, and confirmed that your photo matched your face.”

Felix smiled. “So a single clerk was all that stood between the State Department and chaos, is what you’re saying.”

“A single fallible human, with considerable discretion. So if you could find a clerk with a debt problem and a weak moral character, well, that’s an opportunity.”

“I have a working theory that almost everyone has a debt problem and weak moral character,” Felix said.

“I don’t disagree. It wasn’t that hard to find the clerk.”

“And you made some money.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Until . . .”

“Until I paid someone to kill my cousin Anton.”

Felix’s eyes widened, just slightly.

“He survived,” Ari said, “and it was a mistake. It was an evil thing to do and I will always regret it.”

“Why did you do it?”

“He was obstructing me in a way that felt existential. I overreacted.”

“I see. And you need a new job.”