Unlike the other times, Harry hadn’t contacted anyone to talk with on this trip. He had toyed with the idea briefly, but it hadn’t taken him long to dismiss it. After all, he had already talked extensively with really all of the players in this particular story.

Well — almost all of them.

He tilted his head from side to side as the train rolled into the station, trying to work the kinks out of his neck. Too long. Train rides were far too long. And becoming obsolete in the past few years as air travel became cheaper and cheaper. He could have flown, of course. He could afford it. But he wanted to see the countryside as they sped along, to catch glimpses of the colors, even the scents of the terrain that his mother’s friends had traveled.

“Vasvár,” called the conductor, a dusty man in a gray uniform. Harry looked around, waiting for one of the other few passengers to arise, but none did. He stood, stretched, picked up his briefcase, and nodded to the conductor as he stepped off. The man didn’t nod back.

He stepped off the train and looked around. A thin but steady trickle of people made their way through the claustrophobic tunnel.

Also unlike his other settings, she had never been here. She would not have liked it, he knew. She liked open, bright places. As did he. But he had felt that, since he hadn’t gotten this part of the story firsthand, he owed it to the book to immerse himself here.

As he started towards the exterior doors, Harry’s wristcom buzzed. He looked at it, recognized the frequency, and chose to redirect the call to his pad. He pulled the pad from his pocket and held it to his ear. “Hey, dad.”

The voice that came from the device was hard to hear over the voices and the train, so he began making his way towards the exit.

“How was the trip?” he could barely make out.

“It was fine. Long. I don’t like trains.”

“How’s the writing going?” his father asked after another pause.

“What do you want?” Harry asked instead of answering the question. He knew that tone. His father was stalling.

“I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Why does everyone keep asking that?” Harry half-muttered as he propped his briefcase on his arm so he could free one hand to open the door that led to the outside.

A rush of heat met him, and he almost forgot he was talking to his father as his eyes took in the faded green of the setting he had chosen.

“You know why.” He forced himself to tune his father’s voice back in. “We’re worried about you.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” Harry let the door slam beside him as he stepped into the dusty street to hopefully find a taxi.

“Me, Harrison, Gerard, your grandfather…”

“You don’t need to worry about me. I told you I know she’s dead, I just… I don’t want the stories to die with her, okay?” He felt his voice rising in frustration, despite his intention to keep calm. He was tired. Tired of everyone worrying, tired of everyone looking at him with that expression of pity and — something else that he couldn’t describe. He just wanted them to see him as he was — a writer, a storyteller, documenting and exploring and seeking truth — just as she had on the Surveyor so many years ago.

“Harry, we care about you, that’s all. Ursula messaged me, and she said you seemed — depressed when she talked to you.”

“Look…” Harry sighed and forced his defensiveness to deflate as he hailed a passing yellow car. “I just want to write her stories. That’s all.” He gripped his briefcase a little tighter as he got into the car.

“Okay, son. Just… just promise me that you know she’s dead.”

Harry didn’t allow himself to hesitate. “I know she’s dead.”

“All right. Hey, I’ll be headed to Earth in a few months — we could get a drink.”

“Sure, that’d be great. I’ve got to go, Dad.”

“I love you.”

Harry held onto the words for a moment. “I love you, too.”

Then he turned off the pad and pocketed it.

“Kényelem Szálloda,” he said to the pale-skinned man awaiting directions in the front of the cab. Then he sat back as they sped off, watching the deserted plains pass them by.