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headgear.”
    Either Benson or the architect had attempted to make the big building look friendlier by adding a porch outside the front door. But it was little, flimsy, out of proportion, and looked as if it had blown up against the building and was merely resting there for a moment before moving on about its business.
    The inside of the Convention Center was much Like the outside: plain, clean, practical, and aggressively boring. The ground floor contained a dining area with a practical, spotlessly clean expanse of blue linoleum flooring, white Formica tables, and folding chairs with blue seats that just missed matching the floor and consequently made both look shabby. The rest of the area was for exhibits and meetings. There was sturdy carpet here and lots of room dividers.
    Overall, Jane found it terribly bland and depressing, especially in contrast to the cozy cabin she and Shelley were sharing. But the kids wouldn’t care. They’d be outdoors most of the time and more interested in each other than the building. If kids cared about their surroundings, she reasoned, their own bedrooms at home wouldn’t look quite so much like the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust.
    Benson led them downstairs, where there were locked storage bins that looked like little jails and a very large room with a whole fleet of room dividers on wheels. Benson explained that the dividers were specially designed to provide soundproofing, so many small meeting rooms could be constructed by just sliding them around.
    Next they went from a center staircase to the second-floor dormitory area. A long, single hallway stretched both ways. He opened a couple doors along it to let them look at the rooms, which were sparse but neat. Each had a single bathroom with a shower stall, a big window that looked out over the woods, either two or three single beds in various arrangements, a functional, indestructible desk, and several chairs. It looked like one of the dormitories of Jane’s youth, and she found herself wondering how any adult could survive staying in someplace so essentially “institutional“ without going screaming mad.
    Shelley was watching her reaction. “Bad vibes?“ she asked.
    “Very bad,“ Jane admitted. “And I don’t know why. I think I must have been in a mental institute that looked just like this in a previous life.”
    Shelley nodded. “Or a sanatorium where frail Victorian ladies went to die of tuberculosis. Still, I don’t think the kids would care. And when they get their own ‘stuff’ in here, it’ll look more cluttered, if not better.”
    When they came back out into the hallway, the rest of the group was milling around, seemingly as anxious to get away as Shelley and Jane were—all, that is, except Liz, armed with clipboard and asking Benson about heating and cooling, elevator-inspection schedules, handicapped access and fire regulations and all the practical considerations Jane never would have thought of.
    Al Flowers was standing next to them, leaning against the wall and watching his wife. “Isn’t she a wonder?“ he said admiringly.
    He was just what Jane needed at that moment. A big, gooey jolt of contentment. A man who was proud of his wife. “You’re a good man, Al Flowers!“ she said with a smile.
    They gathered up Bob Rycraft, who seemed determined to enthusiastically examine every room, and left the building. “Now we’re in for a bit of a walk,“ Benson warned them cheerfully, “but it’ll be worth it.“
    “I’ll bet,“ Eileen Claypool muttered. She had developed a serious limp.
    The group returned to the main lodge, circled it, and continued south along the road that ran past their cabins. Benson took it slow and easy, allowing them to stop in their cabins and get cameras (Liz and Shelley), binoculars (Marge), Band-Aids (Eileen), and take bathroom breaks (Jane). Just beyond the cabins, the road turned into more of a path and rose slightly.
    “Look at Marge,“ Shelley whispered.
    Jane