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“Then hurry.”

Minutes later Jeanne Caron studied the email she’d just received from the senior meteorologist and muttered, “Jesus.”

She thought for a moment.

Then she wrote a text. But didn’t yet send it.

This was happening much faster than expected, certainly sooner than was ideal. But ideal had passed them by when the poisoning plot had been discovered and stopped.

If that had worked, they’d be in the transition phase now, that netherworld between complete chaos and utter control. The War Measures Act would have been declared and in place for a few months. Any protests would have been quashed, the protesters rounded up. Most Canadians would not only have accepted the draconian measures but welcomed them, as a bulwark against anarchy. They’d be getting used to living in, essentially, a police state. They’d happily trade freedom for safety. History had taught those in power that frightened people always did. Which made fear of an attack a far more effective weapon than any actual attack. And less messy.

While Canadians welcomed the strong hand of a single leader, in the United States there’d be moves to demonize the nation to the north. The messages in the media, social or otherwise, would declare that Canada was moving into a dangerous dictatorship. A nationalistic, fascist, protectionist state that had closed its border and was jealously guarding its resources. And had no intention of sharing.

And they would not be wrong.

Something would have to be done to bring Canada to heel and get the resources that the United States so desperately needed. And that would belong to them, if not for some arbitrary line on a map.

How bad, really, would it be to move that line? To remove that line?

That was the ideal.

Since the poisoning plot had been discovered, Marcus Lauzon arrested, and the War Measures Act made unnecessary, they’d had to pivot. And they had. It proved more difficult to paint Canada as a threat, especially since few Americans gave the benign nation to the north a first, never mind second, thought. But the narrative was taking hold, thanks to wildfires and sophisticated messaging.

Caron studied the new forecast sent by her contact at Environment Canada. She’d been assured that, so far, no one else had seen it.

According to his message, within the next twenty-four hours, a high-pressure system would collide with low pressure, whipping up strong northerly winds.

To be sure she understood what was about to happen, her meteorologist had sent an illustration. The lines on the map undulated. They went as far west as Chicago and swooped south, embracing Boston, and New York, and … Washington.

Thanks to the new technology of FEDS, they now knew that thick ash would fall all over those cities, as it had a few years earlier. Only worse. Should a wildfire happen to ignite during this window of time.

The scientist assured her these conditions were unlikely to happen again for many years.

Jeanne Caron considered the options.

According to Darwin’s On the Origin of Species, it wasn’t actually the fittest that would survive. The species that survived was the one that best adapted to the changing environment.

And the environment was changing.

And Jeanne Caron was adapting.

She composed a message, then hit send.

And with that she lit the spark that would become a wildfire that would change North America and the world forever. Other drought-stricken nations would watch what happened next and see what was possible. And permissible.

As the environment changed, so would borders. They were, after all, only lines on a map. And a map was flammable.

“Oh, fuck.”

“What is it now?” demanded Beauvoir.

“Look.” Nichol turned her laptop around.

“Jesus,” he whispered and looked from the screen to Lauzon, then Tardiff.

“What?”

They both leaned in and studied the illustration. And if they were in any doubts, the text put those to rest.