On Monday, Floyd turned his attention back to the real world. He worked in the garden and chopped firewood in the forest.

  Then, around 4 a.m. Tuesday morning, he was stirred from sleep by a sound outside.

  He didn’t bother to get up. That wasn’t raccoons. He knew what it was.

  He turned over and went back to sleep with a knowing grunt.

  At 7 a.m., coffee in hand, he stepped outside.

  To the left, stacked neatly on the veranda, was a new pile of boxes. Just like before—no markings, no labels, no paperwork.

  When he opened them, he found what he expected: parts for the project. Hoses. Cables. Electronics. A stainless-steel tank. Components of unknown purpose but exact construction.

  That evening, Oddball arrived.

  He parked his truck, stepped out, and squinted at the boxes.

  “What’s that lot?” he asked.

  “The parts you’ll need—if you decide to take part.”

  Oddball raised an eyebrow.

  “First,” Floyd continued, “there’s the matter of security. It is vital that this stays secret. You can’t breathe a word to anyone.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you.”

  “Yes, Oddball. Deadly serious. If this leaks, it could be fatal. This invention will change the world—and that makes it dangerous. Even after it’s made public, there will be individuals, corporations, maybe entire nations who’ll want revenge. Nothing can be said. Not now. Not ever.”

  Oddball looked at the boxes again. “Hells bells. A world-changer, huh. That’s... big.”

  He paused. “I’ve dealt with this kind of thing before. Not quite like this, but back in the Air Force... sensitive stuff. You have my word. I’m in.”

  Floyd nodded. “Thanks, Oddball. And remember: security always. Now, I need you to get something.”

  “Go on.”

  “When you were in the Philippines—what did everyone ride?”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Oddball didn’t hesitate. “Motorcycles. Everywhere. Mostly 100 or 125cc. There must’ve been millions of them.”

  “Exactly. I want you to buy one. A used one.”

  “Alright. I’ll call a buddy—he might have one, could drop it off in the morning—”

  “No,” Floyd cut in. “No paper trail. No calls. Go somewhere you’re not known. Buy with cash. Bring it back under a tarp. Unload it with the workshop door closed. Just you and me see it. No one else. Ever.”

  Oddball gave a short nod. “Gotcha.”

  “You’ll also need to get parts. The entire fuel system has to go. No trace of petrol. Replace every component. If you need anything, just buy it. Money’s not a problem.”

  “Roger that.”

  Floyd handed him an envelope full of cash. They sat out on the veranda for a while, drinking beer. Oddball tried to coax more information out of him, but Floyd wouldn’t say another word.

  The next afternoon, around two o’clock, Oddball’s truck pulled into the yard.

  A motorcycle sat in the back, covered by a green tarp.

  Floyd stepped out of the house and looked toward the truck.

  “So,” he thought, “it begins.”

  Floyd followed Oddball back to the workshop.

  The gate was shut behind them, and the workshop door pulled closed. Together they unloaded the motorcycle.

  “A three-year-old Honda Click,” Oddball said. “Clean condition. Here are the replacement parts. Cash sale, no receipts, and I got a tank of fuel for the truck—here’s the receipt for that.”

  “Perfect,” said Floyd.

  “I’ll strip out and replace the fuel system tomorrow.”

  “Good. I’ll bring the new components the day after, along with some installation drawings.”

  “Righto. See you then.”

  Floyd drove home. There was nothing left to do on the computer for now—it seemed the transmission had been one-way.

  He took the quad and chainsaw into the woods for a few hours, clearing windfalls and gathering more firewood. That night, he relaxed, flipping through the endless TV channels, letting his mind drift.

  The next day was more of the same. Work in the forest, simple and physical. By evening, Oddball came out to visit.

  “All set for tomorrow,” he said. “Want me to bring the parts back with me tonight?”

  “No, I’ll bring them in the morning. There are drawings too—you’ll need them for the install.”

  Oddball tried again to coax out more details.

  Floyd shook his head. “Not yet. Security, remember.”

  “All good my end, bro,” Oddball said with a slight grin. “Still feels like we’re in a spy movie.”

  In the morning, Floyd loaded the parts and drawings into his truck and drove to Oddball’s workshop. When he arrived, he shut the gate behind him, reversed up to the workshop, and they unloaded everything. The door was closed as soon as the last crate was in.

  Oddball eyed the equipment. “Damn. This is some serious gear.”

  “Yeah. It’s... not your average aftermarket upgrade,” Floyd said. “Here are the drawings.”

  Oddball flipped through them, nodding slowly.

  “Hmm... Looks doable. Bit unusual, but I’ve fitted stranger stuff.”

  They worked side by side all day.

  Oddball paused while setting the carburetor. “That’s an odd setting. Are you sure this is right?”

  “That’s what it says on the spec sheet.”

  “Alright, if you say so. Just wanted to double-check before I go doing anything weird.”

  They finished the installation by three in the afternoon

  “That’s it for today,” Floyd said. “We’ll finish the rest tomorrow. I’m off to get some beer. Green Bay versus Dallas tonight—come watch if you feel like it.”

  “Count me in. I’ll be out in about an hour.”

  After the game, they moved to the back veranda with a beer and a cigar.

  Oddball had reached peak curiosity.

  “You gonna tell me what this is all about?”

  Floyd gave a small, weary smile. “Tomorrow. Everything will make sense then.”

  Oddball took a drag from his cigar and exhaled slowly. “Well damn. This better be good.”