CHAPTER 3

Cars rolled by in a never-ending parade of imported plastic, steel, and aluminum.  Some rumbled in deep-throated guzzle, belching noxious fumes that hung in the air like a wool blanket, others humming in well-tuned perfection.  A fair few slipped past propelled by the high, near-silent whine of electric motors, their magnetic fields in quiet opposition, the sound of rubber on asphalt a grinding overlay of nostalgia.  Tourists, a dozen strong, half-helmed examples of new-age white bread, zoomed through an intersection on Segways, ducklings trailing a mother tour guide.  The morning was both warm and sticky, and Jack Montgomery stared at the Belgian waffle on his plate, upended the bottle of maple syrup, and filled every cup with its own sticky goodness.

The little si...

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