Man plays piano in Prague's Airport.
Photo by Arto Alanenpää
Part of the Czech project
"Pianos on the Street".

I feel I've discussed this before (and I have), but the attempts to build a false sense of deeper connections with our customer service representatives continues to get more irksome.

Earlier today, I was having breakfast with my eldest child at a local chain breakfast restaurant, and I heard our (very pleasant and otherwise very professional) waiter ask their diners as they delivered the cheque, "So, do you have anything interesting planned today?"

To be fair, I like it when our customer service agents are polite and positive. There's a manager/cashier at my local Tim Hortons who now rrecognizes me by sight. I have a standard order. Yes, this does mean I go through their drive-thru too often, but a rapport has built up between us. I pull up to the window after I make my order, and she hands me my double stacked Farmer's Wrap ("here you go, hon"), followed by my kids Timbits ("These are your Timbits") and my coffee ("extra large, three cream"). Then she says, "you have a nice day", I thank her and wish her the same, and I drive off, and that's the extent of that.

We've made a positive connection, and one that is relevant to my reason for going out there. We've understood each other in terms of the relationship of server and customer. We've given each other what we need, we've bid each other best wishes on the day ahead, and we've moved on. What more could you ask?

I'm not sure what motivates chains like Starbucks to encourage their servers to try and delve deeper into the customer/server relationship. How does knowing a person's private plans increase the likelihood of that person returning to face further interrogation? And how often has that question backfired? How often have they asked about somebody's interesting day, only to learn that their customer is heading to a funeral, and their question has led this person to tearfully unload everything about their grandfather's long fight with cancer, while traffic backs up in the drive-thru lane?

Listening to my waiter ask this question of every table they're serving tempts me to ask them what the strangest, most off-the-wall answer have they received to their inquiry? Or, better yet, to come up with the most outlandish answer of my own -- though it might need a prop or two:

WAITER: So! How was your breakfast?

ME: Excellent, thank you.

WAITER (rips off and hands over the receipt): "Do you have anything interesting planned today?"

ME: Yeah. We're disposing of a body.

WAITER: That's nice-- WHAT?!

ME (picks up ceremonial urn, plunks it on the table): Yeah. Uncle Fester. His dying wish was for us to have one last breakfast at his favourite restaurant before we take him down and dump his ashes in the Grand River, so he can float gently out to sea.

I realize one of the defining features of this age is a growing lack of personal connection, and the social strains that this causes, but attempting to force connections isn't the solution. I don't go through a drive-thru to unload about my problems, and I don't go to a breakfast restaurant with my eldest child to share my day's plans (or lack thereof) with a perfect stranger.

If I wanted to share my thoughts with strangers, I'd approach a bartender. I'd be sitting at a counter, alone. That's the stereotype, right? I'd be sitting in front of the Piano Man, Billy Joel, who'd ask me why I was still in the navy. But I'm not at a bar, I'm at a breakfast diner. I'm not behind a counter, I'm at a table with friends or family, or I'm in a coffee shop working hard on my computer. There are better times and places to try and forge connections, and these false and forced attempts aren't among them.

Indeed, I can't help but wonder if they're another symptom of our society's disconnect.

Winter set in early this season, with two big snows in November, and it looks like it intends to stay a while. We've had couple of beautiful, bright but bitterly cold days, but we've also had some hefty snow-squalls which ensured a White Christmas. That's fine. Now that we've had our white Christmas, I'm seriously looking forward to spring, though that seems a ways off.

What hasn't been welcome is the flu that has ripped through our family. The eldest child was the first to get it, and I felt it coming two weeks ago. Today, it lingers in Erin and the youngest child. We've been vaccinated, but this has been one of those years where the vaccination didn't quite match up with the flu strain that became dominant, clearly. Oh, well. Hopefully this virus is on its last legs with us. Fingers crossed.

This past month, I've had a few more podcast appearances to talk about my writing in general and The Night Girl in particular. To start with, I had the pleasure of sitting down (via Zoom) with Chris Clinard at Books4Guys, to talk about the themes of my work, including issues of identity, and the possibilities of my novel-in-progress, The Curator of Forgotten Things. I had a great time, and you can listen in on Apple Podcasts, Overcast, and Spotify, or directly from their website.

Another neat interview was on The Mind of Sai Marie, where we talked about my coming up from fan fiction as I embarked on my writer's journey. We got really deep into the themes of The Night Girl, and the questions were really challenging in the best way. Check it out here. Sai Marie also has a newsletter.

Then Aimee Ravichandran invited me on board Author Talk, with her co-hosts. As Americans in the middle of a cold wave, they spent a little time complaining before I noted that, as a Canadian, I had it worse, and I hated it too. We had a good time discussing urban fantasy for a good forty-five minutes. Check it out here on Spotify.

Finally, I apologize for letting mention of this podcast slip too late, but I had a great time talking to Kino Isaac, a South African podcaster, producer and creative entrepreneur, who was super engaging and got me talking about my love of Toronto, and even about watching Doctor Who on TV Ontario. Check out his podcast over on Spotify; he made 52 minutes go by super quick.

I would like to thank Ed Willett and his publicist Mickey Mikkelson for getting my name out there. I haven't had a chance to do this before with my previous books (excepting The Sun Runners and Tales from the Silence, which Ed also published and publicized), and I'm grateful for these fun opportunities.

If there's a fair argument that sometimes Canadians are too patient, maybe it comes in the drive-thrus of Tim Horton's on Christmas morning.

This Christmas, I wanted to treat the kids to some Timbits. Now, you might think, "but, James: it's Christmas morning. Isn't everything closed?" But I know for a fact that some Tim Horton's stay open, even through the darkest Christmas night, so I head out. And the neighbourhood Tims (a small building that exists primarily as a drive-thru) seems busy. Cars are lining up down the street. So, I pull in behind them, with my music playing on my stereo, and I settle in towait.

There's something about a queue, and I don't think this is just a Canadian thing. We see a line-up of people or cars patiently waiting for something, and a part of our mind just thinks: I've got to get in on that action! So we join the line-up and wait. The spent cost fallacy comes in pretty quick. Sure, you might be able to get faster service if you go elsewhere, but then all the time you spent in the line here will have been wasted. What a tragedy! Just hang on for another minute. Things will move then and I'll get my prize, surely!

Ten minutes later...

Ten minutes later, I sense that something is wrong. We're not moving, at all. That this line isn't now miles long is largely due to people rage-quitting behind me. I was anticipating delays because, maybe, they staffed this small outlet with a single worker to handle orders, do cash, cook, pour coffee and clean (possibly in defiance of the Geneva Convention), but no. This is different.

It takes me pulling out of the line and driving past the front door of this Tim Horton's outlet to see that, indeed, this place is closed on Christmas day. Now, to be fair: this front door is out of sight of the cars lining up for the drive-thru. Further investigations later shows that other closed Tim Horton's have their holiday hours posted not only on their front door but also beside their drive-thru order stand. This one doesn't. Somebody has forgotten, and a very orderly chaos is reigning.

It actually takes some honking and yelling at the line-up to convince these people that this Tim Horton's they're lining up for is closed and they should be on their way. Those that leave seem grateful.

I then found the one Tim Horton's in the neighbourhood that was open, and it is packed. Cars are stretching down the street, just like the closed Tim Horton's I've left, but I can see workers working inside. Parking my car and getting out gets me into the pedestrian line, which still takes me twenty minutes to get my coffee and Timbits, but oh, well. It's Christmas. Everybody is mostly cheerful.

And as I pass the closed Tim Horton's in my neighbourhood, the cars are still lining up, for nothing.

Apple TV seems to be providing some of the more highly original, thought provoking, and thoroughly creepy science fiction television out there today. The first season of Severance blew my mind. And, while Murderbot wasn't deeply creepy, the adaptation still knocked it out of the park, in my opinion. And then we come to Pluribus, the latest series from Breaking Bad and Better Caul Saul creator Vince Gilligan, which turns a whole lot of dystopian apocalyptic tropes on their head, and makes us think deeply about what it means to be an individual, and human.

Spoilers obviously follow, so if you don't want to be spoiled, refrain from reading after the break. And, honestly, this show hits better, the less you know of it, going into the first episode. So, if you haven't seen it, go see it, then come back to this review.

All right, you were warned.

The story starts under a night sky, as a clock counts down from just under 440 days. Post-doctoral students and interns at a SETI-like communications array detect a signal from space. While not as exuberant a first contact scene as in Contact, the young scientists believably can barely contain their increasing glee as the authenticity of the signal from 600 light years away is confirmed, the intelligence behind it undoubtable. And the signal carries an unusual pattern. It seems to be split into four parts, each emitting in a different pattern. What is this quatenary pattern? Some encryption code? Or something a lot more basic?

Upon realizing that the signal is actually a DNA sequence, the governments of the world, showing unfortunately natural human curiosity, start producing this DNA to see what it can do. At first, it appears to do bupkis to the assortment of animals they try it on. But when an apparently-dead subject rat two workers try to dispose of (thankfully while wearing biohazard gear) wakes up and bites one, the plague has found a host intelligent enough to get started on its plan.

While this has a bit of the feel of a zombie plague, these "zombies" move with a choreography that is truly creepy to behold. Moving as though they know what every single one of them is thinking, they set about preparing to infect all of humanity. And the countdown clock counts down. Still another few weeks to go.

The first episode of Pluribus is a slow burn. We break off from the building invasion/plague to follow cynical best-selling romance author Carol Sturka as she finishes off her book tour alongside her agent/lover Helen. Why should we care about this woman? As a non-best-selling author, I found myself somewhat unsympathetic to her complaints about the fame she's received from art she sees as, at best, formulaic. But, stay tuned; actress Rhea Seehorn puts on a masterful performance, especially when the poop hits the fan and the whole human race, everywhere, including her partner Helen, goes into seizure.

Pluribus is billed as a dark comedy and you see it as Carol, panicked almost out of her mind, still improvises wonderfully to get her partner onto a makeshift stretcher, into the back of a borrowed pick-up truck (after shoving the seizing driver into the passenger seat) and driving to the nearest hospital, where she finds everybody there -- patients, doctors, nurses, everyone -- affected. She still does the best she can, trying to tend to Helen, and giving her CPR after the woman comes out of the seizure, smiles beatifically at her, and dies.

At this time, everybody else wakes up, and before you can say 'Zombie Apocalypse', writer Vince Gilligan flips the script. The "Zombies" don't try to eat Carol. A doctor tries to kiss her, but backs off when Carol adamantly rejects him. They seem far more interested in taking Helen's body away and cleaning up the damage around them than they are in Carol. When Carol yells at them to back off and demands to know what they want, the whole crowd replies, in unison, "We just wanna help, Carol."

That is an utterly chilling moment. That is the last thing you'd expect the Zombies to say, and it reveals so much. These people are now operating as a single entity. They have taken over completely. And, most of all, they know Carol's name.

Weirder still, the people obey Carol's orders. When a creepy neighbour child is told to go away and leave her alone after pointing out to Carol at her doorstep where the spare key is, every single neighbour on Carol's street piles into their cars and goes away, leaving Carol alone.

Carol, having rushed home with Helen, driving past mobs of infected people fighting to put the fires out, rather than to stop them, gets to her TV set and tries to get news from the rest of the world. To her delight, C-SPAN is still running, but tuning in, she sees an unfamiliar man in a suit standing behind the presidential podium, smiling at the camera, while the ticker crawl reads, "No pressure. We know you've got questions. Carol, when you're ready you can reach us at this number."

The highest surviving member of the former American chain of command, who happened to have a suit on, fills Carol in on the details. Humanity is now a hive mind. It's all just the human race, they assure her. They know her because they have the memories of the people who know Carol, including Helen, who they swear was happy to join the collective, even as she died. They assure Carol that her mind is her own. They just want her to be happy, as they are happy. They promise to try and not do anything that would hurt her or frighten her. But as she is now one of only twelve humans who has proven immune to the hive mind virus, they're doing what they can to remove that obstacle and welcome Carol into their living embrace.

"I thought you said my mind was my own," Carol replies, showing great feistiness even while surely being near, if not past, her breaking point.

Be sure to get close for the C-SPAN conversation. The words on the lower-third of Carol's screen are truly a delight to behold.

Pluribus, at least the first three episodes I've seen, is wonderfully acted, fantastically directed, and amazingly written. Vince Gilligan and his partners have put together a scenario that viewers can engage with on many levels. You can follow along with and sympathize with Carol's visceral anger over what has happened, and her drive to bring things back to the way things were, as unrealistic though that may be. And in terms of what she's facing, Vince has crafted an infinitely creepy and alien adversary that's disturbingly easy to like, both for its humanity, and inhumanity. The concept of a human hive-mind raises tons of questions that gets your brain rolling, in much the way the concept at the heart of Severence does. How does this work? What is humanity's new purpose? What the heck is going to happen next?

One of my elevator pitch lines for The Curator of Forgotten Things is "what if the robots took over, but they were nice about it." I feel the same vibe here. This is the coziest of cozy apocalypses, and yet it's more frightening than your typical alien or monster thrash. The antagonist that just wants to help is rare, and probably difficult to write well, but when done well, as done here, it's as scary as it is strangely compelling. Helping in this regard is actress Karolina Wydra as Zosia, who acts as a spokesperson for the hive mind, and is developing an excellent chemistry with Rhea Seehorn's Carol.

Pluribus is running for nine episodes this season, and reports on the original deal suggest that two seasons have been commissioned. It's still early to fully assess this series, but I'm on board. And I highly recommend that everybody else get aboard.

We need to see this. Together. All in one.

Stephen has collected some great stories, and you would all do well to buy this collection. You could do it at Bakka-Phoenix, or order it through your local independent bookstore.

I'm proud and honoured to have one of my stories from Tales from the Silence, "After the Apocalypse in Moosonee" included in this collection, and I hope you enjoy it. To help celebrate, I'd like to make one of my other stories from Tales from the Silence available for free. "Big Fish, Little Fish" is sort of a sequel, or at least a continuation of "After the Apocalypse in Moosonee", as we follow one of the characters (Drew McMurtry, who blew his opportunity for peaceful contact with the residents of Moosonee) to Toronto as it's rebuilding from societal collapse.

This is the third time I've used Toronto as a setting for my stories. The first was The Young City which was mostly set in 1884, then there's The Night Girl, which is almost present day. "Big Fish, Little Fish" takes place in the mid-to-late 22nd century, and I had a lot of fun weaving hints of intervening history into the descriptions of post-apocalyptic future Toronto trying to be "Toronto the Good". The story also recalls some of my times visiting my father's office as he worked in the government office blocks around Queen's Park, which is now the seat of the "Toronto District Government".

You can see this story in print or as an eBook along with all the other fine stores of Tales from the Silence by ordering the book from your local independent bookstore, or directly from Shadowpaw Press. Either way, please enjoy this tale.

(The enclosed photograph is entitled Toronto After a Rain Storm and was taken by Andreas Duess. The picture is taken from Wikimedia Commons in accordance with Andreas' Creative Commons License)

=+=+=

Big Fish, Little Fish, by James Bow

Moosonee, James Bay Shore, November 30, 2177

When McMurtry returned to Moosonee, he found it empty.

He jumped off the train onto the platform. Soldiers followed, rifles drawn, sweeping the Meeting Hall and the Main Street before a party headed toward the community centre, but he could tell what their report would be. All the stores were closed. The coffee shop had a sign on its window saying, "Thank you for your patronage." Above the sound of soldiers' shouts and footfalls, he heard only the gulls above the estuary and the rustle of distant dry leaves.

He tightened the collar of his cloak. The first flakes of snow fell around him.

A sergeant ran up from the train station. He saluted. "Mr. McMurtry? Telegram, Senior."

McMurtry took the slip of paper, unfolded it, read it, and folded it again. He sighed.

"Senior?" said the soldier.

"It's okay," McMurtry replied. He headed for the train. "I have to go and make a report."

#

McMurtry sat in silence as his train headed south. He stared out at verdant forests, rutted roads, and ruined towns rebuilding into villages. The further he went, the better repaired the buildings were and the more activity around the stations.

What did I do wrong? he thought. Why did they run away from me?

He thought back to the explosion, the chasm opening up in the trestle, the young woman standing at the other end, rifle in hand, a distant figure of defiance.

And he saw that woman again at Washago Station, just before Lake Simcoe.

He caught it out of the corner of his eye, the figure, her arms by her sides, rifle in hand, the dark, whole-body stare. He blinked and peered out his window at the people on the platform. But he couldn't see the woman now. The train lurched and started forward. McMurtry settled back in his seat and stared ahead.

#

"What did you say to them?"

McMurtry stood before Minister Dinsdale, hands clasped in front of him. "Nothing that I shouldn't have, Minister."

Dinsdale peered at McMurtry over his glasses. "You must have said something that alarmed them. That alerted them."

The crowd-control guns were probably what alerted them. I said we shouldn't bring them, but you overruled me. He swallowed these words. "I said I was with the government and that we were here to help."

Dinsdale grunted. "Well, we have the port lands, at least. That's not nothing. We'll start shipping supplies and personnel ahead of the winter. We'll have a functioning and defendable port by the spring. But if we spooked the locals, we don't know what they're saying to other locals. We don't know what reception we'll get in Attawapiskat or up the Ungava. The Greenlanders could take advantage of this dissension."

Not Greenlanders, Kalaallit Nunat, McMurtry thought, but he kept his head down and said nothing.

Dinsdale tapped at his tablet a moment, then looked up. "What are you still doing here?"

"Um . . ." McMurtry swallowed. "I just wanted to know, Minister . . . I was grateful to be sent into the field. I just . . . When will my next assignment be?"

Dinsdale frowned. "We'll tell you. In the meantime, go to your desk. I'm sure there's paperwork to do."

McMurtry stepped back, fidgeting. "Yes, Minister." He turned away.

"McMurtry?"

He turned, hope rising.

"See your office manager. We've reassigned the desks."

McMurtry nodded and left.

#

"This way, Senior." A young woman holding a clipboard led McMurtry, holding a box of personal effects, between rows of crates, battered chairs, and sheets on ropes, separating desks. At least the light was natural, from windows propped open with sticks, though the air remained musty. McMurtry shuddered. This place will be an oven come summer.

The Whitney Block had been built almost two hundred fifty years before beside Queen's Park, the seat of the old Ontario government that now held Toronto's District Council. Its upper floors had spent most of their life abandoned, unable to be modernized, before being pressed into service as one of the few structurally sound office buildings left in the city. McMurtry stepped around electricians taping wires to the walls and ceiling while the woman led him past others setting up and personalizing their desks.

"We've just opened this floor," the woman continued. "Cleaned out a lot of pigeon droppings, I'm told. Sent them to the farms in Niagara."

"Ah." He dodged a worker hurrying from his desk, report tablets under his arm. He looked at the woman, at her close-cropped dark hair, red lips, and bright blue eyes. "Um . . . Listen, what's your name?"

"Nelissa, Senior." She gave him a bright smile. "Nelissa Stronach, general administrative assistant. I just came aboard."

"Ah." McMurtry smiled back. "Well . . . welcome aboard, Nelissa. I'm Drew McMurtry." He wasn't sure of his current title. "You can call me Drew."

She nodded. "Certainly, Senior." They'd reached the last desk in the row. She gestured at it. "This, I believe, is yours." She stood, hands clasped in front of her, waiting.

McMurtry stared at his box of possessions, then at her. He set the box down. "Um . . . thank you."

She nodded and left.

McMurtry sat at his desk. A young man strode up, dumped a pile of folders in his inbox, and stalked off.

McMurtry looked around a moment, at the room that took up most of the floor, at his office colleagues. He fished inside his box of possessions and pulled out his new nameplate. Apparently, he was a Deputy Adviser, Accounts Administration, whatever that meant.

He thought back to Moosonee. Where had the residents all gone? That girl . . . Baker told me that she'd had an ocular implant that needed replacing. What happened to her? Did she get help? Did she lose the eye?

What could I have done differently?

I could have done something.

Couldn't I?

His gaze fell on the wall beside him. A framed picture was mounted on it, showing a line of fish swimming in the ocean. Well, the smallest, on the left, was swimming. The one behind it had its mouth open to eat it. The one behind the second also had its jaws wide, as did the last one, the biggest of all.

Beneath the picture, in white serif capital letters against a black border, was the word "CONTINUITY." He wondered if it was supposed to be inspirational.

A silly thing. McMurtry stood up. I should be able to find a decent replacement. He grabbed the picture, only to have his fingers slip off. He gripped the frame again, but it refused to move. He couldn't even get his finger behind it. He stepped back, staring at the picture.

The picture let itself be stared at.

Around him, the office buzzed with hushed conversations and the scrabble of pencils.

McMurtry returned to his desk, grabbed the first folder from his tray--Form I-121989, Authorizing the intake of produce from newly acquired lands in the Grey-Bruce District--picked up a pencil, put his head down, and began to work.

#

Form W-583145: Authorization to transfer 10,000 pounds of non-perishable food into the ration pool for distribution among the population.

Form T-68223: Authorization to commit forty tractors and related support equipment to the farms of Haliburton and to coordinate their use by local farmers.

Report C-618: On normalizing relations with the Dominion of Montreal; benefits and points of contention.

#

December 15, 2178

It may not have been a corner office--though McMurtry had never aspired to one--but at least he could see the See-En Tower through the nearest window. The broken spire rose over the city as it had done for two centuries. Some downtown towers remained abandoned, south windows blown in, north windows blown out, their upper floors useless until elevators could be rebuilt, and there was plenty of rebuilding still to be done. This hadn't stopped people from taking up residence in the lower floors. McMurtry wasn't sure if they should do that, but it wasn't his problem, nor his department.

On the sidewalks of Queen's Park Circle, men and women strode to work, cloaks flapping behind them. McMurtry smiled to see them, then frowned as he saw one woman not walking. She stood, people flowing around her, and as McMurtry watched, she looked up.

He couldn't see her face, but he felt their gaze connect. In her silhouette, he thought of the woman standing on the other side of the broken bridge a year ago.

"Catch!" Nelissa shouted.

He looked up as a roll of red-and-green streamer sailed at his head. "Wha--hey!" He batted it out of the air, then caught it. "What was that for?"

"It's time to redecorate your desk, Senior," Nelissa called. "Don't be a fuddy-duddy! You don't want us decorating your desk for you."

"You really don't," said Brian from somewhere beneath a mass of tinsel. Beside him, Agatha pulled tape from its dispenser like a sword from its sheath.

McMurtry sighed. "Fine! Toss me the blue streamer." He caught the bundle Nelissa tossed him. He looked out his window again, but whoever had been standing below, if they had been there, had gone.

The door to the Minister's office opened. Dinsdale poked his head out. "McMurtry? With me, please."

Everybody in the office gave McMurtry a look of sympathy and support, combined with a shrapnel-avoiding half-step back.

"I'm sure it's fine," he muttered. He handed the streamers back to Nelissa. "Keep decorating." He walked to Dinsdale's office.

He closed the door behind him. Dinsdale stood beside his desk, flipping through McMurtry's report. "Good work on the Montrealer report. A lot of valuable insights here. It will be put to good use in the District Governor's office."

McMurtry quietly let out the breath he was holding. "Thank you, Minister."

Dinsdale set down the report and looked directly at McMurtry. "I thought you'd appreciate knowing this: we've repaired the Coast Road up James Bay. Our people have occupied Attawapiskat."

McMurtry blinked. "Minister?" he said at last.

"Port Moosonee is secure," Dinsdale replied. "Our shipments start in earnest this spring, and I expect we'll have our first contact with ports in Siberia this summer. Happy Holly-mass."

"Oh." McMurtry caught a smell of salt air and heard the sound of gulls and the rustle of barren trees.

"I thought you'd be pleased that our James Bay initiative was a success." Dinsdale gave McMurtry a stern look. "In spite of whatever caused our initial misunderstanding last year."

"Yes, Minister."

Dinsdale picked up a tablet and began sorting through the notes. McMurtry turned to go.

He hesitated at Dinsdale's door. "Minister . . .? Were there people in Attawapiskat when we got there?"

Dinsdale looked up. "Hmm?" He glanced at his tablet. "Apparently. This time, they chose not to run."

McMurtry stayed with his hand on the doorknob. "Was there . . . resistance?"

Dinsdale shrugged and set the tablet aside. "Nothing we couldn't handle."

McMurtry opened his mouth to say something but stopped.

"Don't worry about them," said Dinsdale. "They're under our protection, now. They should be grateful." He gave McMurtry a cool smile. "Go back to the party. I hear the Secret Santa's about to start."

Outside, Nasser, sitting at the desk closest to Dinsdale's door, looked up. "Bad news?"

McMurtry jerked back to the present. "What? Oh! Uh . . . no. Not bad news. Good news . . . I guess."

He walked through the Holly-mass preparations to his desk. He thought about looking out the window but decided not to in case the silhouette was there. As he reached his chair, he found himself staring at the motivational picture. "Wait." It was as he'd seen it, every working day of his life this past year, but with a difference. The line of fish with jaws open to eat each other remained, but the smallest fish wasn't there anymore. "Where did the little fish go?" he muttered.

"What little fish?"

He jumped as Nelissa stepped beside him. Before he could think of anything different to say, he blurted, "In the picture?"

"What picture?"

McMurtry's mouth hung open.

But Nelissa gave him a smile and shoved a foil-wrapped box in his hands. "Happy Holly-mass."

He blinked at her. "Isn't it supposed to be a Secret Santa?"

She patted his arm and gave him a chaste kiss on his cheek. "I think we have enough secrets, don't you?" She turned away. "Come on. We don't want to miss out on the cocoa."

He gave the picture one more look before he followed her.

#

Form M-81834: An authorization to send crowd-control equipment and military personnel vehicles to the James Bay shores.

Form M-82337: An authorization to send additional ammunition, fuel, and military rations to the James Bay shores.

Report C-723: The benefits and drawbacks of opening trade with the California-Cascade Federation.

#

McMurtry hesitated after he filed the report in his outbox. He pulled some of the forms from before and looked them over. Behind him, the city disappeared in snow.

We were supposed to help. Why do I feel like we're not helping?

And, from some deeper part of his brain: What did the little fish do to anybody?

What can I do about this? I should do something about this. But what can I do?

What did Sergeant Baker tell me?

He opened his file drawer, sorted through requisition forms, and pulled one free. He grabbed a pencil from its holder.

Form W-338219: Authorization for the transfer of medical supplies, including implants, to the James Bay shores.

#

July 21, 2183

"Oh!" Nelissa covered her face. "This is so embarrassing!"

McMurtry let out a short laugh. "And yet, you agreed to it."

"My patriotic duty," Nelissa shot back. She covered her face in her hands again. "Still embarrassing!"

"It'll be fine," said Brian. There were murmurs of agreement from the rest of the office staff.

Nasser cleared their throat. "It will be fine . . . Senior."

Brian flushed. "Oh, right. Sorry. I'll remember next time." He paused, then added, "Senior."

Nelissa glanced at McMurtry. That's also embarrassing, she mouthed.

He smiled and shrugged.

They stood at the windows, looking down from the Whitney Block at the restored Hepburn Block, an eight-storey-tall glass-and-concrete box. Just forty years younger than this building and so much more work to be done, McMurtry thought. They built things quickly in the 1960s and built things to last in the 1920s.

Across part of the face of the Hepburn Block, tarps came off, sliding to the ground. Behind them, against a blue background with a red maple leaf in the top corner, was a stylized image of Nelissa, cloak billowing, facing the future with determination. Level with her feet in block letters half a storey tall were the words "FORWARD TOGETHER."

Beside him, Nelissa's face was as red as the maple leaf, but as her colleagues clapped and cheered, she smiled.

"The first of a dozen across the government buildings of this city," said Brian. "Senior, you promise you'll remember us when you're off being rich and famous?"

She huffed. "I'm still working here, you know." She gestured out the window. "That's a side job for public morale." She glared and pointed at one of her guffawing colleagues. "Shut up, you!" Then she laughed and went on. "I'm still just a Deputy Adviser, like Drew here. That's what I'll stay for now."

Somewhere in the crowd, McMurtry thought he heard someone mutter, "Not for as long as Drew's been Deputy Adviser, surely."

"Shush," said someone else.

Drew ignored them.

At the next desk, Nathan picked up his tablet. He frowned. "Hey, do you folks think we should be worried about this Federation business?"

McMurtry looked over. "Which one?"

Nathan looked confused. "You mean, 'which business'?"

"No, I mean which Federation," McMurtry replied. "There are five."

"Five?"

"Yeah." Nelissa counted them off on her fingers. "The Federation of Oceana and Micronesia, the Federation of African Nations, the European Federation--which is really getting up everybody's nose in the Arctic--, la Federation des las Americas, and the California-Cascade Federation."

"So," Brian drawled, "FOAM, FAM, EFF, FAS and, er . . . KIFF?"

"It's not really our business," said McMurtry. "We're the Ministry of Northern Affairs, remember? Unless it's the Europeans messing around in the Arctic, the rest are just someone else's department."

"You sure?" Nathan held up his tablet. "It looks like the FAS and the Californians are about to get into it. They've had a naval encounter off the tip of the Baja."

"Which is on the other side of this continent," said McMurtry. "Diagonally."

Nelissa sighed. "Still, you'd think we'd have learned to work together better with everything that's happened since the Manhattan Sea Wall."

In the Minister's office, they heard Dinsdale say, "Thank you, District Governor. I'll check."

Everyone headed for their desks to look busy. Dinsdale emerged, looking preoccupied, and headed for Nasser's desk, whispering to them. Nasser nodded and pulled some folders from their inbox. McMurtry found himself standing by the window with Nelissa. He saw her glance at her eight-storey-tall likeness and smile.

"Congratulations," he said and held out a hand. "On this and the promotion."

She clasped his hand and smiled at him warmly. "Thanks, Drew."

The moment stretched, the two staring at each other. Nelissa raised an eyebrow. McMurtry opened his mouth to form a question about coffee and a place to drink it. If only he could figure out the words.

Behind them, Dinsdale straightened up. "Thank you, Nasser."

McMurtry stepped back. Nelissa's smile turned sad. "We should get back to work," she said.

"Work." He coughed. "Yeah. Uh--" But she was already heading for her desk.

Dinsdale beamed at her as he approached. "There's our face of hope!" Nelissa blushed anew.

McMurtry tucked his head, grabbed a folder from his inbox, and got back to work.

#

Report C-768: The challenges of trading with the European Federation; best approaches for access.

Report C-850: Reforming the United Nations of Earth, Assessment of Possible Initiatives.

Report C-903: The potential threat of the Kalaallit Nation on Toronto and Montreal interests. Is a reassessment in order?

#

September 14, 2188

Nelissa tapped her fingers on McMurtry's desk. He leaned back, frowning at the metal band on her ring finger. Well, he thought. You had your chance.

"What are we looking at?" Nelissa asked.

He snapped back to attention. Beside Nelissa, Minister Dinsdale zoomed the tablet in on a photograph. He sucked his teeth. "I think McMurtry's assessment is accurate. This is Lake Champlain, and these appear to be a massing of amphibious forces. We know Montreal doesn't have this amount of equipment. Besides, these are facing north."

"So, the Free State of Boston," said McMurtry. "And the numbers suggest they're planning an attack."

Dinsdale darkened the tablet. "A fair assessment, McMurtry."

"Why did this end up in my inbox?" Nelissa asked. "And where could Boston have got so much equipment or soldiers?"

"I can only speculate on the first question," Dinsdale replied. "This wouldn't be the first piece of misaddressed mail this or any government has seen. As for the soldiers and equipment . . ." He lowered his voice. "We've been monitoring military buildup along the Atlantic coast, likely supported by the Federation."

"Which one," Nelissa began automatically. "There are five--"

"Four, actually," Dinsdale cut in.

"Four?" McMurtry echoed.

"La Federation des las Americas and the California-Cascade Federation announced a merger yesterday," Dinsdale replied. "By mutual agreement, or so they claim. Troops moved across the Colorado River a couple of hours later."

McMurtry and Nelissa straightened up.

"It may be three shortly," Dinsdale continued. "Reports suggest the Europeans and the Africans may be close to an agreement, and this one might actually be an agreement." He slipped the tablet into a folder. "Good work, you two. I'll get this to the people responsible." He turned away.

"Minister!" McMurtry jumped to his feet, then froze as Dinsdale turned back, eyebrows raised. McMurtry stammered but continued, "What are we going to do about this? Aren't we going to warn the Montrealers?"

Dinsdale pursed his lips. "They probably already know. If not, well, worse for them."

Nelissa gasped. "Shouldn't we do something?"

"Not our department," Dinsdale replied. "Ministry of Northern Affairs, remember? Others in this government are already paying attention, and they may be saying that it does us no good to tie ourselves up in a war the Dominion of Montreal will likely lose." A smile flickered on his lips. "And it's not without its silver lining. This may be a good opportunity to bolster our Arctic defences without interference from the Ungava Peninsula." He raised the folder in a salute. "Thank you again, you two. Keep up the good work."

He walked away, leaving Nelissa and McMurtry staring. They looked at each other, Nelissa's expression a plea. In the end, McMurtry could only shrug.

Nelissa turned away with a huff of disappointment.

McMurtry watched her go, shame rising. He pushed himself out of his seat. But before he could follow, something caught him out of the corner of his eye, and he found himself staring at the CONTINUITY inspirational picture on the wall.

The line of fish eating fish wasn't a line anymore. Instead, the fish formed a circle, chasing each other, jaws wide.

He ran a finger over the top of the frame. It came away grey with dust.

He looked closer at the picture. He could see the texture of the paper behind the glass.

And reflected in the glass . . .

For a moment, he stared into the reflection of the woman at the bridge. She was right beside his desk, glaring. But when he turned around, the space was empty. The office ticked along like Tuesday.

He glanced once more at the picture, wiped the dust from his finger, then grabbed his cloak and headed for the stairs. He needed to walk.

#

Report C-1577, The obligations and benefits of military cooperation with the Free State of Boston.

Report C-1855, Military assessment of the activities of Appalachian piracy on Lake Eerie.

Report C-1900, Military assessment of the cessation of acts of Appalachian piracy on Lake Eerie.

Report C-2072, An assessment of the state of the Appalachian government, given the attacks on its southern borders.

#

March 7, 2190

McMurtry hummed as he hopped over the slush at the curb. The sun warmed his face, though the wind chilled his back. He nodded good morning to familiar strangers in the street. He nodded to the eight-storey image of Nelissa on the Hepburn Block. It had been a good weekend: just himself at home curled up with a good book.

He grabbed the morning order of coffee from the espresso stand in the lobby and hurried up the steps. He stepped into the office and staggered back from the volley of raised voices.

"Listen to yourselves," Nelissa shouted. "You make it sound like they're pontooning across Lake Eerie right now! The Appalachians haven't signalled surrender!"

McMurtry's brow furrowed. "What's going--"

"The Appalachians haven't signalled a thing for a whole day now," said Brian, grim. "Not since--who are they, again? The Federales or the Californians?"

"I don't know!" Nathan moaned. "They've changed their name again! I think they're calling themselves the Federation of Earth Nations." He waved his arms. "Whatever! They're playing this world like a godsdamn game of Risk!"

McMurtry set the coffee down and raised his hands. "What are you--"

"Whoever these people are, they're grouping together and moving in," said Brian. "The rumours I've heard suggest they've got ten thousand troops garrisoned in the ruins of Cleveland, ready to roll."

"They wouldn't!" Nelissa gasped. "They wouldn't dare!"

"Okay, enough!" McMurtry yelled. In the silence that followed, he continued more quietly. "First thing's first: where's Minister Dinsdale?"

"Across the street," said Nasser from their desk. They nodded out the window at Queen's Park. "Meeting with the District Governor."

"That's good," said McMurtry. "Because if he was here, he might have a few choice words about us panicking about--" He frowned. "What are we panicking about?"

"Haven't you seen the news?" Agnes handed over a tablet. "The Appalachian government went silent thirty-six hours ago."

McMurtry flipped through the news headlines.

UNKNOWN INCIDENT AT MISSISSIPPI-OHIO CONFLUENCE.

FEDERATION INVOLVEMENT FROM TEXARKANA BASES?

NO ANSWERS FROM GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS!

McMurtry checked the site address. "These are private media, not official government reports." He handed the tablet back. "If something was on its way, we'd know. You're panicking over a lack of information, over rumours. We need facts."

"Drew's right," said Nelissa. "I'm sure the Minister is being briefed on this right now. We'll ask him when he gets back."

"Um . . . everybody?" Nassar stood, staring out their window at Queen's Park. They beckoned everyone over. "Something's happening at the legislature."

Vehicles were lined up in front of the legislature building. People were running out of the building in them. As soon as each one was full, it peeled off, screeching as it turned a corner, heading north.

"That--" Brian began. But his drawl died in his throat. There was no joke to make of this. No assurance, either.

McMurtry drew a deep breath. "I'm sure that there's a reasonable explanation--"

The stairwell door creaked open. Everybody turned. Minister Dinsdale walked in, hands in his pockets, eyes on the carpet, shoulders slouched. Questions died on everyone's lips. Everyone stared as Dinsdale shuffled past them to his office door.

At his door, he hesitated, then turned and gave them all a tight smile. "I'm proud of you all."

Everybody stared as if they were under a spell.

He nodded. "Now, go home, all of you. Right now. That's the safest place to be."

He stepped back and shut the door.

"What?" The spell broke. They started forward, but Nelissa shouted, "Wait!" They looked at her, and as they did, they became aware of a new sound rising: a rumble to the south. Everybody stepped to the windows and looked out at the city.

People stood on the sidewalks below, staring south. The few vehicles on the street had stopped, people getting out to stare as the rumble rose. It was a clatter, with a whine of motors and gears, backed by a steadily rising buzz.

"Are those tank treads?" Brian whispered.

"No, they're plane engines," said Nelissa.

The answer came to McMurtry. "They're both."

Specks appeared in the southern sky, behind the See-En Tower and the renewing skyscrapers, growing bigger, flattening out to wings with propellers.

Then, triangular specks rushed in above the propeller planes. They burst past in the sky above with a roar.

Everybody staggered back. Brian knocked into McMurtry. He caught his foot on a desk leg and fell to the floor, knocking his head on the edge. Around him, everybody shouted.

"We got to get out of here!"

"Wait!" That was Nelissa.

"They're going to start bombing!"

"We can't stay here!"

"Run!"

McMurtry blinked through the pain in his temple, then rolled to one side to avoid the stampede. "Wait," he gasped. "Nelissa!" He blinked tears. "Everybody!"

The door slammed. The voices faded. The rumble and roar of tank treads and planes did not. McMurtry rolled onto his hands and knees, used the desk to haul himself up, and touched his forehead. It stung, but no blood came away on his fingers. That was a good sign, wasn't it?

He looked around at the empty office, made messy by everybody's hasty departure. For a moment, he didn't know what to do. Then he looked out at the south window again, at the propeller planes. Those are bombers.

He turned for the exit.

And found himself staring at the woman from the rail bridge, standing between him and the exit. She had an eyepatch where her implant had been and a rifle in her hand.

McMurtry blinked at the pain in his head. He struggled to focus. The woman spoke with grim calm. "You pushed us aside. Then you stood aside as your neighbours got overrun. Now, it's just you." She folded her arms. "You are going to learn what it's like to be overrun. You are going to understand what it's like to have no one in your corner. You are going to know how it feels when there's no one to help you now."

McMurtry took a shuddering breath. "Please--"

She stepped aside, clearing the way to the stairwell door. "Run!"

Terror took him, and he ran, clattering down the stairs, staggering at the bottom landing, crashing through the door into reception. The lobby was empty, but it vibrated with the rumble of approaching war machines. He shoved through the revolving door into the front courtyard.

The traffic was gone. The people were gone, fled to their nearest hiding spaces. Only the determined stare of Nelissa on the eight-story face of the Hepburn Block greeted him. The sounds of tank treads pressed closer, and he ran, past government buildings, broken subway entrances, repairing hospitals. At the ancient memorial, The Surrender of Saint Gumby, he staggered to a stop, seeing the woman from the bridge standing at its base, arms folded, head tilted, unpatched eyebrow raised. Then the line of armoured vehicles swung into view at the south end of University Avenue.

He ran again.  The slam of his footfalls echoed off glass and concrete. Every street had emptied, every store closed. Every house had its shutters drawn. He ran past more building-sized images of Nelissa looking calm and carrying on. He heard no gunfire, no explosions, but still, the rumble-clank of tank treads continued. The buzz of propellers became background. The roar of jets punctured his fog of pain and fear and made him run faster. He tripped on streetcar tracks and rolled, swinging back to his feet to run again, barely breaking step.

On the face of an apartment block, Nelissa blew him a kiss.

Finally, he reached his own street, ran to his own house, dashed up his own walkway. He fumbled with the keys at the front door and staggered inside. The sounds of invasion continued. He locked and bolted the door, dragged a bookshelf in front of it, then backed away, down the hallway, down the stairs to his basement.

The sounds followed him into the musty darkness. He looked for something to hide under. In the end, he could only press himself into a corner, hugging his knees to his chest, wishing his friends were here to help. Wishing for Nelissa. Plane propellers and jet engines continued to roar, tank treads to rumble. He put his hands on his ears, buried his face in his knees. Please go away! Just make it go away!

Please!

#

McMurtry could not remember sleeping, but one moment, he blinked, and there was light filtering in through the small windows near the ceiling, and it was silent.

He lifted his head, then stood up unsteadily. No roar. No rumble. For a moment, he wondered if he was deaf, but he heard the scuff of his shoe against the concrete floor and, as he listened harder, the faint sounds of birdsong outside.

He let out his breath and leaned his forehead against a wall.

Knock! Knock! Knock! Knock!

He stumbled back, his heart pounding.

The knocking came again. He looked up at the ceiling. It came a third time as he climbed the stairs and a fourth time as he shouldered the bookcase aside and opened the front door.

A soldier stepped back, wearing camo gear and a rifle slung over his shoulder. His armband didn't show Toronto's colours, but a green flag with a gold four-pointed star McMurtry hadn't seen before. A second soldier stood two steps to the first soldier's left. A man with a clipboard stood between them, clean-shaven and wearing a hat, grey pants, and a long, beige cloak.

The man looked up from his clipboard. "Mr. McMurtry?"

McMurtry tried to stare past the man and the soldiers up and down the street. The houses still stood, as did the trees. None of his neighbours were outside. No vehicles rolled. But he did see pairs of soldiers walking up walkways and people with clipboards walking between them.

The man in front of him cleared his throat. "Mr. Drew McMurtry?"

McMurtry jerked to attention. He nodded.

"Mr. Drew McMurtry, Deputy Adviser, Accounts Administration at the Ministry of Northern Affairs in the Whitney Block?"

McMurtry nodded again.

The man flipped the pages of his clipboard, circled something, then nodded. "That's still standing." He looked up at McMurtry again. "Report to your desk for an all-staff meeting, nine o'clock tomorrow."

He nodded at McMurtry, then turned on his heel. The soldiers followed the man down the walkway, then up the street to the next house.

#

Soldiers swept the streets as McMurtry left for work. Guns slung over shoulders, they pushed brooms and carried garbage bags, corralling what remained of the litter. The soldiers didn't look at McMurtry, and McMurtry didn't look at them. None of the people who were suddenly back on the streets, heading to work, looked at the soldiers. They hurried along, their heads down, and so did he.

On the face of the Hepburn Block, soldiers were repainting the inspirational art piece, changing the blue background to green and painting over the maple leaf with the four-pointed star. They seemed to be painting a band on Nelissa's arm.

McMurtry hesitated at the revolving door but entered anyway. He shared a look with Ms. Stacey at reception, but neither said a word. He went upstairs.

He entered his floor and let out a breath of relief to see all his colleagues at their desks. "Thank--" he began, then stopped. Nelissa was jerking her head, gesturing to his seat. The Minister's office door was closed.

That's when he noticed the soldiers standing in the corners of the room. McMurtry took his seat. Silence stretched. The air felt as oppressive as summer.

Finally, the Minister's door jerked open, and a young man stepped out, holding a clipboard. At first, McMurtry thought it was the same man who was at his door the day before, but this man's hair was a little longer and darker, and his clothes were more ornate.

The man beamed at them. "Good morning! I'm delighted to see you've all turned up. I realize these past few hours have been stressful for you all, but that's in the past now. I'm your new supervisor. You may call me Mr. Scranton."

Scranton stepped to the middle of the floor and turned slowly, addressing everyone. "I want to assure you all that, while I may be new to this job, nothing is going to change about your work. Your hours will remain the same, your pay will remain the same, and your duties will remain the same. I expect nothing from you that you haven't already provided in the past. I know you all do exemplary, important work. Where would our governments be without the knowledge and institutional memory of the workers at their desks? We believe in the future, and we believe in moving toward that future. I'm delighted to have you all with me as we embark on that journey."

He nodded at everyone, his smile as bright as the dawn. "I'd like to say that I have an open-door policy. My door may be closed right now, but you're always welcome to knock. As your supervisor, think of me as a resource to help you be the best you can be at your job. So, ask me anything! Anything at all!"

"Where is Minister Dinsdale?" said McMurtry.

Around him, his colleagues tensed, but McMurtry stayed where he was, hands clasped on his desk. Scranton stared at him.

Then Scranton looked down and flipped through his clipboard. He ran a finger down a page, nodded, and then looked up. "That's irrelevant. Any other questions?"

Silence reigned.

"Good!" Scranton beamed. "So, before we return to work, I'd like to invite all of you to come to the meeting room to learn and take the oath of allegiance to the Federation of Earth Nations. This is entirely voluntary. Those who wish to take the oath, please stand up now."

For a moment, no one moved. Everyone glanced at each other, at Scranton, at the soldiers in the corners, at the soldiers' guns. Brian stood up.

He was followed by Agatha, who was followed by Nathan, and then by Nasser. McMurtry felt himself rise to his feet, though he wasn't sure if his brain had given the order. Soon, everyone in the office was standing.

Everyone except Nelissa.

She sat in her chair, back straight, hands clasped across her lap, staring straight ahead.

Behind her, McMurtry saw the woman from the bridge glaring at him.

Brian shifted as if to sit back down, but a soldier reached up and touched the butt of his gun. Brian halted, then slowly stood straight again.

Scranton nodded. "Fair enough. Everybody, let's go."

Scranton led the way. A soldier followed, nudging people forward. McMurtry stood, staring at Nelissa. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, her cheeks pale. For a moment, McMurtry could only stare back.

Then, a soldier was beside McMurtry. "Senior," the young man said, his voice low.

Nelissa's lips tightened. She focused ahead. Beside McMurtry, the soldier waited.

McMurtry looked down. He turned away. He followed the others to the meeting room, feeling the glare of the woman from the bridge on his back. The door closed behind him.

Scranton stood beside a whiteboard at the front of the room. On it, the Federation of Earth Nations's pledge of allegiance was written out in full.

"Everyone . . ." Scranton faced the whiteboard. "Place your right hand over your heart and recite the words before you as we say--"

Voices filled the room. "I, hereby accepting citizenship of the Federation of Earth Nations, voluntarily and consciously swear an oath to observe the Constitution and laws of the Federation of Earth Nations, the rights and freedoms of its citizens; to fulfill the duties of a Federation citizen for the benefit of the state and society; to protect the integrity of the Federation of Earth Nations; to be faithful to its leadership, and to respect its cultures, its history, and traditions."

#

Nelissa was not at her desk when they returned. McMurtry filed in with the others, silent.

At his desk, he stared a moment out his window. They were almost done repainting the eight-storey-tall poster to have a green background. They'd kept Nelissa's face, placed a Federation armband on her, and even kept the "FORWARD TOGETHER" message at her feet. Vehicles drifted along the streets below. People walked carefully. Soldiers swept litter from the sidewalks.

He turned away and found himself staring at the inspirational picture of CONTINUITY.

The line of fish was gone. It was just one fish, now facing the viewer, its mouth open wide.

McMurtry sat down. He pulled a folder from his inbox and grabbed a pencil.

He looked once at Nelissa's empty desk.

Then he put his head down and got back to work.

=+=+=

(If you'd like this post delivered to your e-mail, consider joining my Patreon, here)

I'm embarking on a train-related writing retreat, heading out today, and returning home on Monday. Like another trip, back in 2018, I'm going in a bit of a circle: VIA's Canadian (in coach) from Toronto to Sudbury Junction, Ontario Northland bus from Sudbury to Ottawa, two days in Ottawa to attend Can*Con, and then VIA Rail from Ottawa to Montreal. On my final day, I board VIA again, to ride from Montreal back to Kitchener. Except for the stretch between Kitchener and Toronto, there will be no doubling back (or, at least, no substantial doubling back) over roads or tracks I've taken before on the trip.

Back in 2018, I did a perfect circle, riding VIA Rail from Kitchener to Montreal, Amtrak's Adirondack from Montreal to New York, then the Crescent through West Virginia and Kentucky to Chicago, then Amtrak to Detroit, the Tunnel Bus to Windsor, and VIA Rail back to Kitchener, via London. It's become harder to accomplish this trip in the years since, as the Tunnel Bus is no more (but may be replaced by a private venture), and where there used to be two trains linking London to Kitchener, now there's only one. No late evening arrival from the west for me.

Why a circle trip? Maybe it's a means of packing in more value: more new scenery per mile travelled. Or maybe it's just the challenge. Another challenge is to make this trip on ground-based public transit only. No private cars. No airplanes. No ubers. Except I did take Waterloo Taxi to get to my early GO Train from Kitchener.

I could talk about how rushed and inhuman plane travel can be, compared to the leisure and restfulness offered by the train, but really, I've said that my transit trips are like long walks with assistance, and so there's value to me in keeping my feet to the ground.

See you in Sudbury tonight, then in Ottawa and Can*Con this weekend.