It isn’t because you’re paranoid that there isn’t an asshole out there out to get you. That’s what makes paranoia so insidious. It doesn’t matter that when the asshole in the muscle-shirt bumps into me and nearly makes me drop the barbell with hundred and sixty-five kilos on it; I tell myself he didn’t conspire with anyone to hurt me. Or that the crowd watching it happen, now snickering, isn’t in league with him, or laughing at me specifically.

Paranoia is right there agreeing with me. Sure, this asshole didn’t plan any of this, but you know there’s one out there just waiting for you to drop your guard.

And I can’t contradict that voice in my head, because I know there is someone out there out to get me. My father’s still out there. It doesn’t matter that I haven’t seen or heard from him in over twenty-five years. I’m not lucky enough for him to be dead.

I slow my breathing. I focus on the fact that I didn’t drop the bar and not that I want to slam it, weights included, in the back of mister muscle-shirt’s head, with the woman in tight shorts and tighter shirt hanging off his arm. I tell myself that he needed to act like I didn’t impress him because his muscles are all for show.

Just like with paranoia, it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. It helps me calm down. I focus the anger on raising the bar into controlled curls. The best revenge I can get on that guy is to not let him screw up my training.

I finish and store it and the weights under the bed at the back of my car. Now that I’m done, the crowd of women half my age disperses. On the other side of the building, the constant growl of diesel engines competes with the round of cars racing along the highway.

I wipe the sweat off my face and chest. Virginia is hot in the middle of June and the late afternoon sun reflecting off the expanse of pavement doesn’t help.

I park at truck stops because they are cheaper than motels, and the back of my Grand Caravan is modified to serve as a bed, and workspace when I have to fill out paperwork. As a bonded courier, I’m on the road most of the time, and the modifications were a good investment.

Truck stops provide me with showers, Walmarts with supplies. For the rests, there are rests stops along the road.

Shower pack and change of clothing in hand, I head inside and pause as I see the number of people. I don’t like crowds. It’s too easy for someone to get behind me and stab me in the back.

That’s paranoia talking, I remind myself, and go in. There are cameras. No one would try to stab me there. I pay and get assigned a shower. Thank God, no waiting list.

Once I’m done with that, I’m ready to brave the crowd again, until I see the store’s filled with people and I balk. Outside, there’s a double-decker bus. Tourists. I take a breath and head for the door. It takes me by the fast-food counter and they have pre-made burgers under the heat lamps. Getting one means I have to brave the crowd to pay for them.

I take two and get in line. I’m too hungry to wait until I’m in the van. People are loud and inconsiderate. They shove one another, and me. I check that my wallet is still there each time. Finally, it’s my turn at the counter, and green eyes stop me.

He’s older, but his hair’s black, and that’s enough. This isn’t my father. Just a random clerk. He charges me for the burgers and I nearly lose it when it comes up five cents higher than it should.

I should have headed straight outside.

“There’s a mistake,” I state.

“No,” he starts, and only his surprised expression when he checks his screen stops me from jumping over the counter and demanding to know what my father’s giving him to make my life miserable. “I’m sorry. It must be keyed in improperly. I guess most people don’t notice a two-cent difference.”

Most people didn’t grow up with a father who kept changing things and claiming they were always that way.

He corrects it. I pay and I leave. The burgers are eaten before I’m even halfway to the van, and the weight in my stomach helps me feel better. That goes away when I see muscle-shirt next to the van, looking in.

One punch, a voice at the back of my head says calmly, you’re entitled to one punch after the way he treated you. The voice is my father’s, honey-coated and seductive. Telling you he’s your best friend, all the while poisoning your mind.

There are days I wish I could reach inside my head and rip everything that he put in there.

You don’t have to be your father, a different voice says. Feminine, caring, but rough around the edges. My mother’s voice. The strongest woman I’ve ever known since she survived living with my father for sixteen years. Always there to calm my fear and crisis. There, once he vanished, to remind me I was more than what that man tried to mold me into. More than a poor copy of him.

“Can I help you with something?” I ask and he jumps. I don’t bother hiding the smile at his reaction.

“Yeah, what’s that thing?” his tone’s defiant.

“My home, you have a problem with that?”

“You live out of your car?” he smirks, only it vanishes as I take a step toward him.

“Do you have a problem with that?”

He opens his mouth, the lips curling up, then reconsiders. Maybe my bulk finally registers. My muscles are defined, but they’re there. Or maybe he notices the anger in my tone, my eyes.

He raises his hands. “No, no. No problem. He sidles away.

There’s still time, my father teases.

I unlock the van and get in, slamming the door closed. In the rearview mirror, I see him join the woman he was with, point in my direction, and laugh.

I should have caved in his skull.

I start the van. I can’t stay here, because that was in my voice.

* * * * *

The morning’s cool. Enough, I have the window open as I drive. I slept in a rest area. Quieter and fewer people than a truck stop. If they had showers, I’d probably always use those instead. The nine AM news ends and Willie Nelson’s On the Road Again comes on and I smile. I’ll be back in Canada tomorrow, drop the parcel, then get moving again.

A flash of light makes me glance out the passenger window, but there’s nothing there but clear blue skies. Another hot day according to the forecast, in two days it’s going to be summer, and it’s going to be one to remember.

I pass my first car parked on the side of the road five minutes later. A couple is walking away from it, toward the exit visible ahead. On the other side of it, I pass three more stalled cars. What is going on?

I stop counting after twenty, and I slow after the first one that’s left in the middle of the road. Someone’s going to be in trouble for leaving that there. I’m looking in the mirror at it when the van shuts down.

“Fuck!” There goes my schedule.

I have enough momentum to get it to the shoulder, like what you’re supposed to do, not leave it in the middle of the road, asshole.

I turn the key, and nothing. The dash’s off, the ignition doesn’t even tick. I curse again. A car passes me way too fast as I take my phone out.

“Jazz,” I tell the woman who picks up.

“Chuck?” she replies. “Is that you?” her voice dissolves into static. “Are you there?” it comes back.

“Jazz, it’s me, the reception is horrible here.” A quick glance at the screen tells me I have four bars. The problem isn’t on my side. “Look I’m—”

“I can’t make you out, but we’re having computer problems,” she says before dissolving into static again. “Sunspot, George says. I’ll—”

No static, no sound. No screen either. Trying to turn the phone back on produces nothing. Would sunspots do this? I looked to the east again. Was that what the flash was? I reach behind my seat and pull the laptop. It doesn’t come on either.

How far am I from the exit I passed? The next one ahead?

There’s an overpass, and I can make out people under it. The owners of the vehicles littering the road? No phone or laptop means no GPS. The road atlas is in the back, in one of the storage compartments. It’s years out of date. And without knowing where I am, it’s not going to help me get… all I have to do was walk, I’d each the next exit, there, I could call a towing, get the van to a garage, electrical problems were beyond his mechanical abilities. Call the office, let them know I wasn’t going to be on time.

I get out. The highway was eerily silent. Holidays weren’t even this quiet on the road. Out of the side door, I open one of the bins and take the backpack. Out of another, boxes of granola bars.

A car honked as it approached, only for it to die and the car to come to a stop. An older woman exits as I pile in the boxes in the backpack. She approaches. She smiles.

“Excuse me, do you know what’s going on?” she asks. “Our car just died.”

I motion to the others. “That seems to be happening today.” An older man exits from the passenger side. “Maybe someone there will know.” I point to the overpass.

“That’s a good idea,” she says, “we’ll go there with you.”

Before I can point out they aren’t where I’m going, she heads for the older man. They have to be in their seventies, both of them. I don’t have to stay and wait for them. I don’t even have to go in that direction. There are people in that direction.

Just be nice, my mother’s voice tells me. My father would walk off without second thoughts or a second glance.

I wait for them.

“It is so nice of you to wait,” the woman says. “I’m Mary. This is my husband, Bernard. We are heading to Hagerstown to visit our grandchildren.”

“Chuck,” I say and fall into step with them.

“Where are you from?” Bernard asks and I fight the irritation.

“Toronto.”

“Canada? You’re far from home. What takes you this far south?”

“Work,” I answer.

“Bernard, stop pestering the young man.”

That makes me smile. At forty-three, I don’t get called young often. They talk in low voices I actively don’t pay attention to.

A bright red sports car passes us and the people under the overpass yell at the driver.

“That makes an even score,” a woman in her twenties wearing bike leathers said. “Twenty-one if mister sports car over there joins us.”

“Do you know what’s happening?” Mary asks. “Our car just died.”

“Same with my bike. A few cars passed by since, but most seem to have stopped. What’s in the pack?” she asks me.

She’s after my stuff, paranoia says, and I squash it. “Granola bars.” Who would want to steal granola bars? Her expression confirms my thought. “I’m heading to the next exit to get a tow truck for my car.”

“It’s not going to help,” a man calls. “Everything’s dead.” He shows his phone.

“Solar flares,” someone else says and before anyone can add anything, the skies darken. Looking up, the sky is red. Not sunset red, but a deep crimson red.

“Can solar flares explain that?” the bike girl asks.

“I—” the man starts and stops as a message appears in front of me.

Welcome to the System.

Initiation in progress. Time remaining: 3425678 units. Converting. 96 local minutes.

Please use this time to complete your Identity Sheet.