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have a protest march coming into town this weekend,” Vann said.
    “That’s Metro’s problem,” I said.
    “Dealing with the logistics of the march, yes,” Vann said. “Keeping tabs on the protest leaders and other high-value individuals, on the other hand, is all us. What about Schwartz?”
    “He’s a schmuck?” I ventured.
    “Not where I was going,” Vann said. “Do you believe his story about how he happened to be Bell’s lawyer?”
    “Maybe,” I said. “Schwartz is really rich. I checked when I pulled his data earlier. Through Accelerant, he’s worth at least two or three hundred million. Really rich folks do a lot of reputational transactions.”
    “I have no idea what you just said.” Vann stuck another piece of carnitas into her mouth.
    “Rich people show their appreciation through favors,” I said. “When everyone you know has more money than they know what to do with, money stops being a useful transactional tool. So instead you offer favors. Deals. Quid pro quos. Things that involve personal involvement rather than money. Because when you’re that rich, your personal time is your limiting factor.”
    “Speaking from experience?” Vann asked.
    “Speaking from very close observation, yes,” I said.
    That seemed a good enough answer for Vann. “So you think this could be a case of noblesse oblige on the part of Schwartz toward a hired hand.”
    “I’m saying it wouldn’t surprise me,” I said. “Unless you think there’s something else there.”
    “I do think there’s something else there,” Vann said. “Or someone else. Lucas Hubbard.”
    I sat there, thinking about the name Vann had said. Then it smacked me like a fish across the head. “Oh, man,” I said.
    “Yeah,” Vann said. “Chairman and CEO of Accelerant. The single richest Haden on the planet. Who lives in Falls Church. And who almost certainly uses an Integrator for board meetings and in-person negotiations. You need a face for face-to-face meetings. One that moves. No offense.”
    “None taken,” I said. “Do we know if Nicholas Bell is the Integrator he uses?”
    “We can find out,” Vann said. “There aren’t that many Integrators in the D.C. area, and half of them are women, which rules them out, given what I know about Hubbard.”
    “I know people who have Integrators tied up on long-term service contracts,” I said. “Locks up their use except for NIH-required public service. If Bell’s on a contract we could find that out, and for whom.”
    “Yeah,” Vann said. “I hate that shit.”
    “Abrams-Kettering,” I said. “You said it to Bell, Vann. They passed that law and suddenly a lot of folks have to think about where their paychecks are coming from. Everyone around Hadens has to change the way they do business. Rich Hadens can pay for Integrators. Integrators have to eat.”
    Vann looked grumpily into her plate of food.
    “This shouldn’t be a surprise to you—” I said. I wanted to segue into asking her about her time as an Integrator, but got a ping before I could.
    “Excuse me a minute,” I said to Vann, who nodded. I opened up a window in my head and saw Miranda, my daytime nurse. She was in the foreground. In the background was me, in my room.
    “Hi, Miranda,” I said. “What’s up?”
    “Three things,” she said. “One, that bedsore on your hip is back. Have you felt it yet?”
    “I’ve been busy working my threep today, so I’m sensory forward here,” I said. “I haven’t really noticed anything going on with my body.”
    “All right,” Miranda said. “I’ve numbed it in any event. We’re going to have to change your body movement schedule a bit to work around the sore, so don’t be surprised if you come home today and you’re facedown on the bed.”
    “Got it,” I said.
    “Two, remember that at four Dr. Ahl is here to work on your molar. You’re going to want to dial your body sensitivity way down for that. She tells me it’s likely to get messy.”
    “It