That night, the winds were evil. The storm was punishing the meadows, waving about acres and acres of wheat fields; chastising the trees that lowered their tops begging for mercy. The elements had joined forces in a macabre orchestra; and from the sky, streaks of lightning were growling in the spirit of lashing out who dared to walk across the prairie.

Facing the challenge, a lone car drove down the only paved road for miles around. It was a 4WD, and its driver, a young woman who hoped the tracking and the powerful engine she’d put into it less than a year ago, could withstand the onslaught of the storm better than she was doing.

Even when she’d thrown herself into driving in such conditions, she wasn’t willing to become a victim of her own irresponsibility. Of course, doing it with one hand at the wheel and the other straightening a large map, more than a complicated task, it seemed an impossible odyssey.

She had the cockpit lights on, and her light blue eyes went down to the map now and again to pinpoint the route she was in. Outside, everything was almost as black as her T-shirt. The headlights barely cut the tempest; blinding flashings were far from helping. The windshield wiper was not contender powerful enough to fight against the water, and thunderclaps sounded like a set of glassware blasting through clunky speakers.

One particular rumble startled her so much that she dropped her head and frowned for a while as if waiting for the lightning to split the roof of the car.

“Malin? Are you still there?” a muffled voice came from the phone. Her cell was on the dashboard with the speaker on.

Little by little, her expression returned to normal. She threw the map to the back seat and turned off the cockpit light.

“Yes, yes. I’m here.” She pushed her hair out of her face. “As I was saying, the soldiers at the toll booth told me Route 21 is closed; I had to take a detour, and now I’m miles from I don’t know where. I’m using the seven-frequency not to be tracked, but I don’t need to remind you what that means: so long, GPS; hello, prehistoric technology. The worst part? I stopped at a gas station and they conned me with a map that must be from the North Pole because I find nothing I’m supposed to do. Yes, a map made of paper! Speaking about prehistoric things; can you believe it? What year are we living in? 98?”

“Malin!” the voice interrupted her.

“What?”

“I was expecting you at midnight. It’s 1.05 a.m.”

The girl looked at the time on the board. 1.05. Not a minute more, not a minute less. She rolled her eyes.

“Juzo, did you hear any word I’ve said? Route 21 is closed; I took a detour and I’m lost. I don’t see crap, and lightings are target practicing with my car. If you are not doing it, it’s a good time to pay me attention.”

“It would be difficult if you do not articulate.”

Malin made a surrender gesture. How come that answer didn’t surprise her at all.

“I think you need to reconsider our situation,” she said. “It’s Friday night, and instead of getting ready to go out with the gals from the salon, I’m here outside, fighting the forces of nature. Meanwhile, you surely are on the bed, watching TV, with the quality of the cable reception as your major concern.”

“This room doesn’t have a TV.”

And again, another unsurprising answer.

“Don’t complain,” she smiled; “you’re always after the cheapest motels.”

“And you never go out with the girls from the hair salon.”

“Well, tonight, it could have been the perfect night to start doing it, but I’m here.”

Another thunder made her jump; the flashes crammed the cabin. Afterward, she found herself flanked by tall trees that swayed by the wind, like dark fingers trying to grab her. When did she leave the wheat fields behind? Those trees had seemed to appear out of the blue; it was hard to see with the rain. Was it possible she’d gone past the motel without noticing it?

The route drew a tight curve. Malin caught sight of it just before going straight ahead and skewered herself against the wall of trees. She veered the wheel; the tires skidded a little, but they stayed attached to the pavement. A big shout out to the engineers who came up with this beauty. Feeling relieved, she gave a pat on the dashboard.

After the curve, she glimpsed a sign of red lights flashing in the storm, like an electric firefly on the side of the road. Pearl Motel, it said.

“I was quick to criticize the map,” she said.

Now that she felt almost safe, Malin wondered what the encounter with Juzo would be about. Her friend had contacted her at noon through seven-frequency, the channel they used to be sure the line was safe—the first hint of trouble, she thought—and his instructions had been quite specific: ‘Pearl Motel, room five. Route 21, before the ninth access. Go alone at midnight. Do not use another channel but this.’ After that, she’d tried to get in contact with him, but she’d received nothing but white noise. The storm could have been interfering with the line, sure; though it was most likable, Juzo himself had turned off his transmitter to avoid being located. The next contact was the one that just ended.

Why the rush, Juzo? Malin didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but everything pointed at something big.

The night before, he had asked her to investigate certain things. And doing intelligence work was her job, so…

Stop trying to figure out the mystery, gal; you’ll find it out soon. When it came to Juzo, there was no use trying to decipher anything through questions; if he didn’t want to answer, she would receive nothing but silence and excuses. If there was an inscrutable person, of character and thought, that was Juzo Romita.

Malin left the road and went down the path to the motel.

The pavement was eroded, which didn’t mean squat to her 4WD; and she drove to what would be the lodging’s private parking lot: a shed with no walls, away from the small building. It didn’t take her long to decide where to park the SUV; there was only one free spot, the rest was taken up by a wrecked old car without tires, a motorcycle frame, and a bunch of trash covered with dust, broken beds, and forgotten cabinets. As far as she could see, her 4WD was the only vehicle around in conditions to work.

She stopped the engine and got out of the car.

A low-wattage bulb swayed in the wind like a pendulum of yellowish light, attached to a cable hung from a rafter. The downpour clattered on the metal sheets of the roof; it sounded like a rain of needles.

Malin stretched out her legs and adjusted her jeans. The cold soaked her to the skin, so she put on her jacket. She looked around. The wrecked old car, the dismantled bike, and the pile of dusty trash that smelled musty. Behind the shed was a wall of trees that reached the road and kept going until the darkness and the veils of rain gobbled it down. A chill licked her nape; she didn’t know if it was because of the icy touch of the wind, the scenario she was in, or the anxiety because of the date she was attending to.

Then, her eyes laid on a shaking little poster that was about to come off of a column, and she pinned it back so it won’t fly. Such a piece of artwork shouldn’t get lost.

‘Lick boots or work the land. You decide!’ said the worn poster, and below the phrase appeared a caricature of a horse, curiously similar to the winged horse with laurel wreaths representing the Empire, leaning on a shovel nailed down in a field, exhausted and sweating big time.

It’d been years since the last time she’d seen a piece of propaganda like that. What her father would say if he sees it?

Enough. Her father and the hegemony he’d imposed on her were part of the past. She put the hood on and turned.

The motel was of an almost daunting simplicity for the traveler looking for something more than a seedy place to stay. It was one story high; its facade was a porch with unpainted doors and some broken windows, and its dim lighting came from the red neon sign and a couple of light bulbs.

She wondered how many people—besides her friend—had taken the risk of having rented a room there in the past few weeks, and the answer that came to mind was zero.

“Juzo, you cheap dummy,” she whispered, and a smile grew on her face.

Facing the rain, she left the shed and went toward that depressing shoebox with doors.

She ran slowly so as not to trip over; the ground was treacherous, and some puddles hid potholes in the broken pavement and muddy areas. Taking cover under the porch, she avoided passing near the main door, in case the clerk sticks his head out and asks her what was she doing there—with the storm, she doubted that would happen, though—and she looked for room five.

She knocked on the door, and it surprised her that the wood had not collapsed with the blow of her knuckles; it looked somewhat rotten.

“It’s me,” she announced.

The door opened, and she went in.