All the runways, both north and south, had been replaced by a vast, gridlike tarmac. Monorailed – mag-lev? – trams filled with passengers snaked from beneath the terminals out and into parallel spines of distant outbuildings on both sides. David watched as another beast swooped, hovered, and settled itself onto a raised pad a safe distance from one spine. Once its engines were stilled, the pad retracted into a C-shaped enclosure where automated offloading and maintenance began immediately. At that moment, it occurred to him that he hadn’t confronted the smoky smell of jet exhaust. Two sheltered gangways extended to doors fore and aft to process living cargo. Focusing, he searched each idle machine for a discernible cockpit, with windshields, and didn’t find any. As they continued their intermittent game of super-scale hopscotch in the landing area, David began checking their outside skins and tails for identification. Air China. Air Canada. British Airways. Aerolines Argentinas. Lufthansa. Singapore. AeroMexico. Air India. Quantas. Air Lingus. JAL. AlIalia. PAL. AeroFlot. Alaska Airlines. I see Hawaiian –

He lowered his optics and searched the entire airfield.

Where are the other domestics?

The brilliant afternoon sun’s image, reflected off a nearby skylight, interrupted him. David made his way to it; knelt, and peeped in cautiously. Two stories below, he saw the end of a downward escalator, people seated in neat rows waiting for the next tram, and little else. Services must all be in the other building. Still; why does everyone seem so – ordered? His eyes next fell on the shadow of his helmet set in the parallelogram of sunlight on the waiting room floor below. Then they drifted to her – on her feet, mouth moving, pointing excitedly at him. He jerked back, snatched up his pack, and sprinted along the roof’s perimeter to find a standpipe protruding above its corner. It extended straight down into some kind of sealed cistern or storage vessel. Drainage or collection – can’t tell. He hooked an arm around the union, kicked out, and fell until he managed to clamp his arms and legs around it. Pressing and releasing, he traveled the 30 feet to the collector, hit it harder than he anticipated, and lost his balance. He bounced between it and the wall the remaining eight feet and landed in a heap. Pain shot through his ankle when he put weight on it, so he took enough time to convince himself that it wasn’t broken or seriously sprained.

David strained to see everything between him through the landing area ahead and the airport’s barely visible fence beyond. He couldn’t find a small vehicle or anything warm-blooded on legs. Sucking in a breath, he chose a target destination and broke into a steady trot. His feet pounded as he ate up concrete. Halfway, he ran under a fuselage just as its electrical system came to life, quickening his pace. As he passed the end of the last outbuilding, he could see outbound travelers lined against the tinted glass, pointing their fingers and cameras at him. It annoyed him somehow that they appeared more amused than distressed. He attacked the remaining three-quarters of a mile in the open until he reached the cover of an unused cargo transfer building. Panting, he paused, hands on knees, to pay down his oxygen debt. He checked his heart rate, which again was surprisingly moderate, especially after factoring in stress. He squatted to drink and eat. Refreshed, he walked the last 300 feet to the cyclone fence at the edge of Imperial Highway and hauled himself over it. Clutching the chain links, David took a last look between his gloved hands at where he’d been.

Why isn’t anyone after me? What am I ‘hiding’ from?

David forged due west, by his reckoning. From the angle of the sun in the sky and with dusk hovering, he guessed that it was late fall – maybe early November. A native paridisian, he was used to the relative lack of seasonal “tells.” He passed seven intersections, his anticipation growing. The next faded sign – “Virginia St.” – caused a deep tremor. 630 Virginia Street, El Segundo, California. The ancestral hacienda. His head swam through the remaining third of a mile where he froze, staring. Other than the parched lawn, dead hedges, and scabrous paint, the one-story bungalow was just as he remembered. Two bedrooms, one bath. Covered patio. Two-car garage – of course. Jesse Solomon Heller: Born, Queens, New York, 1940. Columbia graduate, B.S. in Engineering, 1961. Peace Corps, “Freedom Rider.” Thirty-plus years in aerospace, Douglas and McDonnell Douglas; took buyout after Boeing merger, 1997. Consultant and…caretaker. Rebecca “Becky” Cohen Heller: Born, Hollywood, California, 1945. Jewish-American Princess; married 1966. Stay-at-home Mom. Clinically depressed; alcoholic.

David entered, reluctantly, and – troubled but relieved – recognized nothing, other than the interior appointments of 1930s Mission-knockoff homes of the ex-urban type. Casement windows. Scrolled-relief plaster ceilings. Sculpted fireplace. What happened? They were still here – barely – when I… The initial impression was that the neutron bomb had been perfected and cleaned up after, or there was a mammal abduction of incalculable proportions. The living area had been redone in what he remembered as Mated Metrosexual. Deep colors with contrasting accents; studio furniture; plantation shutters; eye-jarring floor coverings over dark wood. Indistinct lithographs and prints. A high-end entertainment shrine covered the long wall. He searched surfaces. Where are the controllers? He approached the wall, confronted with both familiar and unknown brands, and saw two goggle-like, wide-banded headsets lying near the game console. Total virtual reality? Damn – where’s PG&E when you need ‘em? Surrounding shelves bulged with scores of DVDs and video games that, upon examination, revealed themselves as mostly frivolous – violent, sexual, surreal, or parfaits of any two or three.

Kitchen: Granite, tile, and superfluous stainless steel.

Master bedroom: TV, Danish, and an embarrassing array of mirrors.

Bath: Utilitarian-sensual gratification train wreck.