“Good. All we want is to show you there’s an option not to have one. It doesn’t matter if you want to be an activist. Though we’d love to have you . . .” She blushed and was momentarily glad he didn’t have a Pilot and wouldn’t see the color in her cheeks. He was older than she’d thought, but still too young for her.
The coffee shop was on the corner of a main street and a block of boarded-up rowhouses. The busy street was parked up, so Dominic turned onto the abandoned one, which had several empty spots. He parallel parked pretty well for a county kid, if Sophie was any judge, though the fancy car gave him guidance, some of which he listened to and some of which he ignored. He got it right the second time.
She got out, then waited for him in the rain as he set a gear lock on the wheel.
“My grandparents insist,” he said.
“You’re lucky,” she said. “I bet most grandparents wouldn’t let you park a car that nice within a mile of this place.”
He scratched his head and beeped the car a second time, as if he wasn’t sure if he’d done it already. “Yeah, um, they don’t exactly know I’m here. I meant they insist when I drive anywhere.”
“Gotcha,” Sophie said.
Stomping Grounds was the type of coffee shop that attracted only the truly dedicated: dedicated to caffeine, dedicated to revolution, dedicated to spending long hours hunched over a computer. It made no concessions to attracting commuters. There were no fancy coffee drinks, no flavor shots, no blenders. Nobody would have etched art in your foam, even if you had foam. They had the basics: coffee, assorted loose-leaf teas, scones, and muffins catering to a range of tastes and intolerances.
The music, when there was music, was dealer’s choice, usually a barista’s band, or the barista’s friends. Two public computer terminals sat in one corner, tribute to the old world order; the manager who maintained them was an expert on Net privacy. An actual working phone booth occupied another corner, with a landline phone. This was less for countercultural purposes than for the few old-school radicals who had refused cell phones. A sign taped above it read we don’t think this phone is tapped, but like any technology, use at your own risk. Below that, someone had added, educate yourself, and below that, someone else had written why do you think i’m here? Subsequent graffiti digressed into metaphysical issues.
It took Sophie a moment to adjust to the dim interior, though the day outside wasn’t particularly bright. She brushed the rain from her eyes and searched the room. Several barstools were occupied, as were most seats at the communal tables. She recognized some occupants from various meetings; others looked like homeless guys trying to escape the rain. On closer inspection, one of the homeless guys was actually Gabe with his locs tucked under a stained cap. He waved, and she waved back, holding up her index finger to tell him to wait a second.
“Hi. Herbal tea to go,” she said to the barista, digging her travel mug out of her backpack. The barista motioned toward the teas, and Sophie spooned some Lemon Mint into her mug’s infuser. The barista filled it with hot water, and she headed for the door.
“Mind if I tag along?” asked Dominic, grabbing a disposable cup. Sophie had forgotten he was behind her. “I was supposed to meet a friend, but I don’t see him here.”
She looked at Gabe, who shrugged. “Your news, your decision.”
She debated for a second. How secret was her news? Anybody could find it out if they wanted to. She motioned him to follow.
The rain had slowed, thankfully. The Grounds was a pretty safe place to talk, but you never knew who was listening; better to walk around. This was one of those spitting rains that would soak them slowly, in increments, like boiling a frog. She was glad for the heavy canvas of her Army jacket and her boots. They were comfortable and reminded her of her brother, but best of all they were practical.
Sophie took a sip from her mug as they walked, burning her tongue. She took another sip anyway, then a deep breath. Gabe was waiting. He didn’t like drama, and she wasn’t trying to be dramatic. Just careful.
“You know my brother?” she began. All in.
“The soldier. We never met.”
“Yeah, exactly. He came home last night. He said he was leaving the military. And get this? He got a job at Balkenhol.”
Gabe stopped walking and stared at her. Dominic, a pace behind in what seemed like a misguided attempt to be unobtrusive, collided with Gabe’s back, sloshing his drink on himself. Gabe ignored him.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. For real.” Sophie knew she’d done the right thing in telling Gabe. This wasn’t drama. This was important.
“Think of the access,” Gabe said, walking again, faster now. Sophie jogged to keep up.
“Not that it’ll be easy,” she warned. “It’s not like he’ll leave his passwords around.”
“No, but I’m sure you’ll hear things. Maybe you can ask for a take little sister to work day.”
“I am not playing a kid card,” she said sharply.
He slowed. “Yeah. Sorry. Getting ahead of myself. We’ll figure something out. This is definitely useful intel. I apologize. Just thinking how to get you into the building.”
“I guess I could say I’m interested in an internship or something,” she conceded, now that the sting was gone. “I can play a role if we need me to.”
“Nah. He knows you’re not interested, right? He’d get suspicious if you suddenly wanted a tour. And I don’t know if Balkenhol would consider someone for an internship who didn’t have a Pilot. We’ll use this in another way.”
“They don’t,” said Dominic, speaking for the first time on the walk. “Balkenhol doesn’t take interns without Pilots. Why would they?
