Jack Redhorse had been working the
south line for seven days
and his mother kept calling him
she was having trouble
with her internet
"Mom, you're reconfirming the stereotype that old people
can't adapt to new technology."
"You're the one who drives an old Pontiac." She replied.
He smiled.
He bought the Pontiac years ago because he thought
it would be generic, anonymous. Now it stood out like a slightly rusty thumb.
Sometimes though, he thought, standing out was the best form of anonymity.

There had been abnormal hacktivity from a roamer and he was trying it track it.
He had identified several clones and had disabled them. It had been tricky because they were booby trapped. He knew they were the work of one person because the traps hadn't varied much. He had to remind himself not to get a false sense of security. These traps could kill you in nasty ways and he knew one way to gamble is establish a pattern of behavior and then use that pattern to deceive. Whoever was building these clones was no dummy. He would know the clones had been disabled and he could track Jacks trajectory.
He thought dude could just be waiting for him at the next one. No fancy booby traps this time, just a bullet from nowhere.
Looking like a drunk Navajo was in Jack's favor.