The parking garage security booth stands vacant. Milly changes clothes, puts on her helmet, and then exits on her motorcycle without paying. Taking a detour, she stops near the barred windows of a storefront. Racks inside lean half-full with dusty phones and electronics. Hopping off her cycle, Milly knocks.
A man opens. “Come on back. Good news”—he shuts and locks the door—“one of your guitars sold.” They walk past the counter and down the hall. “I was just going to ping you.”
“How timely,” Milly says with snark.
“No foolin’. I appreciate your business, but you could’ve made double with a public auction.”
“I told you already why I can’t, Merc.”
“Right, sorry. Your ex.” Merc nods, flopping into a leather recliner. “Find Brazil?”
“Yes, but I didn’t recognize him at first.” She sits in an office chair. “You said he had long hair.”
“Ahh”—Merc grazes his fist across his head like a shaver—“new cranial implant?”
“Brazil should get it checked.”
Merc chuckles. “Glitched out?”
“Solid work, though. Thanks for the referral.”
“Commerce and communication: my specialty.” He fidgets with a rooster figurine. “So, what can I do ya for, today?”
“Same reason: my ex — different ask. You’ve got a secure tunnel, encrypted network?”
He taps his computer. “Naturally.”
She holds up a chip. “This photo needs to go on my social, raw, full data — but like it was uploaded from St. George, Utah. It’s my first share since my div—”
“Hup!” Merc raises his palm. “Don’t need to know. Better for you, me, everyone.”
“Noted.”
“That lesson is free.” He smiles. “Next one’ll cost ya.”
“Thanks.”
“The Regional firewall is tricky. I charge extra.”
“Fine, take it out of my guitar money.”
“Might take a while.”
“I’m patient.”
They exchange chips. She logs in; Merc starts work. Milly takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, leans back, and rolls in reverse with her feet until her office chair meets the corner.