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dinner?” he asked.
    â€œI ate earlier,” I admitted.
    He let his gaze drift out across the dining room, with its white tablecloths and blue china plates, and the glitter of silverware. Low conversations washed around us. A young blonde waitress walked past, her dark slacks clinging to her body, her white dress shirt tight against her breasts, and he watched her for a long moment beforeturning away. I wondered if he slept with the college girls he met along the way, easing them into bed with his stories of saving the world.
    â€œWell,” he said, as we waited for the meal. “What would you like to know?”
    â€œHow many camps you have, I suppose. The kind of help you need. How you got started.”
    â€œI thought I covered most of that in my talk,” he said. “We have two camps at the moment, but they’re in the lowlands, and they’re already staffed. We’re starting a third in a few months up in the mountains. That’s where they’re most needed, but logistically it’s much more difficult. Everything has to be flown in. It’s incredibly expensive. There are tensions along the border, also. Whenever they flare up everything stops for weeks, and no one moves. It’s almost impossible to get things done sometimes. It took me months to get the army to agree to a new camp. I had to meet with a high-ranking general at least a dozen times, and even then he insisted on a liaison officer to oversee things. We have to pay for him, too, of course, even though he’ll do nothing useful. We have to pay for everything. That’s why I’m always on the road.”
    He closed his eyes for an instant, as if overcome by weariness. Just then the waiter appeared with the bottle of wine and the appetizer—tiny chicken kebobs, roasted in garlic. He set the dish on the table between us, poured each of us a glass of the expensive merlot, and asked us if there was anything else we needed.
    Scott Coles shook his head, waved him off without speaking, and took a sip.
    â€œNot bad,” he said, twirling the wine around in the glass in a practiced way. He took another sip, and I looked at him. He puta skewer between his teeth, and pulled a piece of chicken into his mouth. The muscles of his jaw stood out in his cheeks as he chewed.
    â€œRight now we have openings for a few volunteers to get things started. Later we’ll bring more people in. We haven’t done this before, so we’re learning as we go.”
    â€œIs it really that different from the other camps?”
    He nodded, impatiently.
    â€œIt’s completely different. Like I said, this one is in the high country. It’s in the middle of nowhere. It’s a way station. The whole purpose is to give them a few days of food and rest so they’ll be able to continue. No one will stay for long. We’ll need to keep the numbers low so we can feed them. We can’t afford a bottleneck up there.”
    â€œHow many people are you talking about?”
    â€œWe have enough tents for two thousand people at full capacity. But no more.”
    â€œSo you’re going to tell them to leave?”
    â€œYes,” he said. “They’ll have to keep moving. They’ll have to keep going down.”
    â€œWhat if they don’t want to?”
    â€œI doubt that will happen,” he said. “But there will be a military presence, just in case. I hope it doesn’t come to that. If they’re sick, they’ll need to stay longer, of course. In the lowlands, we can usually get them to a local hospital. But in this case we’ll be the hospital. That’s why we need a doctor.”
    I studied him, and took a sip of wine.
    â€œWho else will be there?”
    â€œAt the moment there will be the liaison officer from the army, and a friend of mine. She’s doing a research project on genetics, but she’s also taken classes in nursing, so she’ll beuseful. I’m