You return to the Arabic map of Texas, hoping for PKDian plot-twisting. But wait a minute. Wait a minute. If the Arabic in Your Name Here is just an act of compliance with some edict from the Department of Homeland Security, it’s not unmotivated, not in fictional terms, because it’s just a page in a book, like an ad for Dell in Time or an ad for Brooks Brothers in the New Yorker. People don’t write to John Updike saying “you lazy talentless son of a bitch, what the fuck was that quarter-column pic of a Brooks Brothers shirt doing in your story, it was completely unmotivated, it had nothing whatsoever to do with the characters, and what about the bookrest and reading lamp, John, you’re over the hill. Finding your inner Breton, John? I don’t think so.” The Arabic, the map of Texas, were forced on DeWitt. But in that case, you’re not reading the great Philip K. Dick alternative universe spin-off, whether one where the Moors kept Granada, conquered the New World and settled Texas, or one of creeping paranoia dashed off by a rabid writer high on Pedigree Chum.