I glance over at Argent. Like me, he hasn’t yet lowered his face-shield. There’s going to be plenty of time to stare through that transplast plate, breathing in my own exhalations, and hoping I don’t fog up the heads-up display that’s ready to synch up with the wire in my head and the circuitry in my rifle. The wind—sharp and cold, chilled by the gray water of the Columbia River—helps keep me focused on the present, prevents my mind from drifting into catastrophic imaginings.