Edge

conflict from playing board games. I enjoy those games that re-create famous battles, which are almost exclusively of American design. The Europeans prefer economic and socially productive games, the Asians abstract. But Americans love their combat. Among the games I have are Battle of the Bulge, Gettysburg, D-Day, the Battle of Britain, the Siege of Stalingrad, Rome.
    Some people I’ve met through the gaming community shunned them, claiming they were disrespectful. But I believed the opposite was true: that we honor those who died in the service of their country by remembering them however we can.
    Besides, who wouldn’t admit that rewriting the past has a deep appeal? I once utterly defeated the Japanese military at a game based on Pearl Harbor. In my world, the Pacific campaign never happened.
    My thoughts kept returning to the family who’d lived here when the house was new. It had been a large clan, I assumed; many children were the rulethen. The seven bedrooms could easily have accommodated the offspring plus an older generation or two.
    That always appealed to me: generations living together.
    An image from the past: of Peggy and her mother and father.
    I realized now that in appearance, and because of her quirky side, Maree reminded me of Peggy. None of Maree’s darkness, of course, or the irritations and unsteady nature.
    Mr. Tour Guide. . . .
    Peggy had once called me a bad boy but it happened after I realized we’d been given a large order of fries at McDonald’s instead of the regular and I said, “Let’s sneak out without telling them.”
    More memories I didn’t want.
    I stretched, feeling the pain in my calves and joints from the pursuit of Henry Loving at the flytrap and in my back from the retreat at the hotel. I forced myself to play a few mental rounds of the Chinese game Wei-Chi against an invisible opponent I sometimes imagine to help me banish unwanted thought.
    Then I decided it was time to sleep and rolled over on my side. In two minutes I was out.

SUNDAY

    Players do not always take alternate turns to move their armies. Instead, a deck of Battle cards determines which player moves next, and which of his units can move and attack. No one knows whose turn will be next until the top Battle card on the deck is flipped over. In this way, the play sequence remains a mystery.
    — FROM THE INSTRUCTIONS TO THE BOARD GAME BATTLE MASTERS

Chapter 21
    DOING NOTHING.
    It’s not such a problem for us shepherds; we’re used to it. We’re like airline pilots, whose life is routine 99 percent of the time. We expect this and—though we train for the rare moments of action to avoid calamity—we understand that most of our lives on the job will pass in a waiting state. Ideally so, at least.
    But for our principals, time spent in a safe house often becomes a nightmare. They’re plucked from their active lives and have to spend hour after hour in places like this, cozy though they may be, unable to work, unable to pursue projects around their houses, unable to see friends. Few phone calls, no email . . . Even TV is unsatisfying; the programs remind them of the world that exists outside their prison, fading reruns of our existence they may never see again, frivolous shows, both drama and comedy, that mock the tragedy they’re living through.
    Doing nothing . . .
    One consequence of which is that they often opt for the oblivion of sleep; there’s no reason for principals to wake early.
    At 9:30 Sunday morning, I was sitting in theden at the desk, where I’d been since five, when I heard the snap of a door opening and creaks in the floorboards. I heard the voices of Ryan and Joanne, saying good morning to Lyle Ahmad, making small talk. He gave them details about coffee and breakfast.
    I sent some more emails and then rose, stretching.
    The night had passed in peace and a new spec in West Virginia told me in a deeper voice, though with a twang identical to that of his associate, that scans of the property had revealed nothing of concern. A car had driven by at midnight but it was taking a route that was logical for a local returning from dinner in Tysons Corner or the District. In any case, our GPS had measured his speed and he hadn’t slowed as much as one mile per hour when he passed, which took him off the threat list, according to our algorithms.
    I joined the Kesslers in the kitchen and we exchanged greetings.
    “Sleep well?” I asked.
    “Well enough, yeah.” Ryan was