"Precisionist," they say, not looking up from the page they've been hunched over for more than an hour. "I'm not a cartographer."

You reach for a quip, then catch yourself swaying above your glass -- best to focus on what doesn't move (except it all moves, now).

"These aren't maps," they continue, shaking their head, one hand moving in an arc, drawing a fine line across some horizon.

Somewhere, in a truck outside the bar, or a trailer by the side of the road, a transmission plays its final notes.

You can only make out a single word:

"...listen..."