He couldn’t forget that remark she’d made about the Gulag. Jim knew well enough what a gulag was: a Soviet labor camp, not just "stir" but the real thing. In some way he’d always hated authority, but he’d never done time for it, never faced them down, never walked the walk in the open, where they could spot him. In the back of his mind, though, he’d known somehow that the whole giddy rootless business would all catch up with him, that someday sure as hell they were going to take him down, some clerk, some straight, noticing him and calling the heat, and then some polite cop with a clipboard: Would you pull over sir, may I see your ID please ...