“Drop me off here.”
Turtle shrugs. “OK?”
Milly exits their sedan, walks two blocks, and knocks.
Merc emerges from his electronics store back office.
She waves through the barred window. “Still working?”
He cracks the door. “Haven’t got time for another upload spoof”—he whispers—“from Utah.”
“I only need to delete. From anywhere I'm not.”
“Oh, OK.” He motions her inside and flips the deadbolt.
They enter his office, log in, and load her social network photo. The borrowed Western dress. The rented little boy.
“You got a lot of likes.”
“Who cares?”
He chuckles. “OK, here goes.” Merc plops his finger on the Delete key. “Boom!”
Milly watches her photo vanish. “Still make alt ID chips?”
“Of course, need another?”
“Maybe. How much?”
“How real do you need fake to be?”
“Noted. My other guitar?”
“Negative. I’ll ping you when it sells.”
“Thanks.” Milly tilts her head. “What’s with the footwear?” Stacked boxes, emblazoned with feathered wing logos, cover Merc’s wall.
“A windfall. Want a pair?”
“I don’t turn down free shoes.” She finds her size.
“Safe travels.” Merc sees her out.
“Thanks.” Shoebox in hand, Milly treads nimbly down the sidewalk, side-stepping overgrown cypress vines, hopping over cracks.