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alive.”
    The idea sounded silly to Laura. “Oh, Mother, come on.”
    â€œHe hated clutter, your father. He didn’t care for nice things—lamps, carpets, dinner china. He was a dreamer, he liked abstractions. He called me a materialist.” She shrugged. “My generation always got bad press for that.”
    Laura waved her arm about the room. “But, Mother, look at these things.”
    â€œLaura, I like my possessions and I’ve paid for all of them. Maybe people don’t prize possessions now like we did in the premillennium. How could they? All their money goes into the Net. For games, or business, or television—things that come over the wires.” She zipped her bag shut. “Young people these days, maybe they don’t hanker after a Mercedes or a Jacuzzi. But they’ll brag like sixty about their data access.”
    Laura felt impatient. “That’s silly, Mother. There’s nothing wrong with being proud of what you know. A Mercedes is just a machine. It doesn’t prove anything about you as a person.” Her watchphone beeped; the van had arrived downstairs.
    She helped her mother take her luggage down. It took three trips. Laura knew she’d have a wait in the airport, so she took the baby along, in a canvas travel sling.
    â€œLet me get this trip,” her mother said. She slipped her card into the van’s charge slot. The door clicked open and they loaded the bags and stepped in.
    â€œHowdy,” the van said. “Please announce your destination clearly into the speaker. Anunce usted su destinacion claramente en el microfono por favor .”
    â€œAirport,” Laura said, bored.
    â€œâ€¦ sss … ank you! Estimated travel time is twelve minutes. Thank you for using the Galveston Transit System. Alfred A. Magruder, Mayor.” The van accelerated sluggishly, its modest engine whining. Laura lifted her brows. The van’s spiel had been changed. “Alfred A. Magruder, Mayor?” she murmured.
    â€œGalveston is Fun City!” the van responded. Laura and her mother traded glances. Laura shrugged.
    Highway 3005 was the main artery down-the-island. The road’s glory days were long gone; it was haunted by the memories of cheap oil and private cars doing sixty miles per. Long sections of tarmac had been potholed into ruin and replaced with plastic mesh. The mesh crackled loudly beneath the tires.
    On their left, to the west, bare cracked slabs of concrete fringed the road like fallen dominoes. Building foundations had no scrap value. They were always the last to go. Beach scrub flourished everywhere: salt grass, spreading mats of crisp glasswort, leathery clumps of reed. To their right, along the shore, surf washed the stilts from vanished beach homes. The stilts leaned at strange angles, like the legs of wading flamingos.
    Her mother touched Loretta’s thin curls, and the baby gurgled. “Does it ever bother you, this place, Laura? All this ruin …”
    â€œDavid loves it here,” Laura said.
    Her mother spoke with an effort. “Does he treat you all right, dear? You seem happy with him. I hope that’s true.”
    â€œDavid’s fine, mother.” Laura had dreaded this talk. “You’ve seen how we live, now. We have nothing to hide.”
    â€œLast time we met, Laura, you were working in Atlanta. Rizome’s headquarters. Now you’re an innkeeper.” She hesitated. “Not that it’s not a nice place, but …”
    â€œYou think it’s a setback to my career.” Laura shook her head. “Mother, Rizome’s a democracy. If you want power, you have to be voted in. That means you have to know people. Personal contact means everything with us. And innkeeping, as you put it, is great exposure. The best people in our company stay in the Lodges as guests. And that’s where they see us.”
    â€œThat’s not how I remember it,” her mother