He told me the gate was that way. Twice.
I'd ridden eleven hundred kilometers to tell six hundred people their town has eighteen months before the water takes it. I brought instruments. I brought proof. I did not bring an invitation.
What I got was a man built like something you'd use to hold up a bridge, arguing with a pressure valve, who looked at my numbers like I'd insulted his father.
Which, in fairness, I had.
Now I'm four days into a three-day survey, sharing a lamp with the president of a motorcycle club who calls me Doctor like it's a curse and reads my handwriting like it's scripture.
Nobody in Bastion says his first name. Not once. Not ever.
So why can I feel it sitting in his mouth every time he looks at me — and what happens to us both on the day he finally says it?
