Morning in New Earth, OR. Late summer. Shadowy still in the canyon of the St. Mary’s, here, at least, where there is a canyon. Sun bright on the coast range, glinting here and there from some military cast off in the old Reserve: the half-ton on the slide, the radar array, a guy-wire string across the gorge from the Central Beacon. Far up the slope, a moving glint: a hill-climbing ATV perhaps, or a large insect-machine. For sounds, rustle and flow along the river, the drone of the mill just upstream. More traffic these days on the main drag, with the road more or less open again to the coast. A few pickup trucks and a jacked-up “backwoods cadillac” pulling a small trailer. Insect chorus, of course, with here and there the tell-tale creak of a tiny tree-feeder, assembled since the sprayers were last out, or blown in on the evening breeze. The far-off drone of a cropduster, out marking the forest edges and spraying the fields with anti-nano spray. Groggy, from much too little sleep. Errands and leave-takings have filled days to overflowing, spilling over late into last night, my last night, at least for awhile, here in New Earth. Wandering the reserve roads by moonlight, searching for Our Lady of the Central Beacon, alert for any sign of The Bear. Kaylie, Our Lady, my friend and, let’s be honest, sometimes at least a bit more, sitting by the shelter-gate with the Madonna (Federal Expeditionary Forces, decommissioned) of the Radar Array. Very much decommissed this time, both of them, glitching hard in and out of the most formal phrases of greeting and farewell. Voices stammering, buzzing at odd intervals, sounding for all the world like the Harvester or one of the big saws up at the mill. Welcome and thanks you. Farewell. On behalf of the Fededdedederal Ex. Peditional fofarewellell. For thank for you for visit this fac. . . God blessess. May He go with you. Gabriel, I. . . Tears in the eyes of My Lady. Awkward silence. Tears. The package under my arm. Umm. From Ben Burr. Can you carry it up a ways, by the den? Keep the machines off? Nods. Unsteady. Gabriel, certainly. From the other: Your father was with us, you know. I don’t know, though this is well-worn ground. If my father was here, sometime, and they’re so notoriously bad with time, he is clearly not here now. He’s off with the circus now, I expect. It’s the old joke, not funny, though he did, I’m told, in youth do just that. Run off and join the circus. Eleven hours til my flight and my bags are packed. More baggage at the moment I just can’t take on. For Benjamin. Handing over the package. Yes. Silent, awkward embraces, though the silence seems to help. I see a bit more Kaylie in Our Lady of the Central Beacon, a little less of the broken clockwork girl. May he go with you. . . ? She tries. I’m already out on the suspension bridge. It comes across faint, plaintive, difficult to hear, and impossible to decode. I’ll be home soon. In the moment, as on reflection, I’m just talking, because I can. Because my voice doesn’t break into cicadas and heavy machinery. For better or worse, my voice doesn’t break at all. I’m not sure it speaks well of me.