Daisy starts to pull away. I wave my arms to stop her.
“Hold it! Wait! What climate should I pack for?”
Seems like a reasonable question. But Daisy shakes her head like I’m the puppy who keeps peeing on her rug.
“You’re still not getting this, are you?”
“Getting what?”
“It’s your choice, Mr. Crane. It’s all on you. Whatever you write, that’s where we’re going.”
Chapter 4
Unknown, 6:00 a.m.
Dawn in the desert. A two-lane blacktop cuts through nothing but sand, rocks, and scrubby brush. A black Suburban comes over a rise and pulls onto the shoulder. The left rear passenger door opens. A man steps out. The Suburban takes off and disappears into the distance.
Tyler Bron blinks against the morning sun and turns in a slow circle. No idea where he is. He reaches for his iPhone. Google Maps will clear this up. Uh-oh. No phone. He does a quick pat-down of all his pockets. His heart starts pounding. Not only no phone… no wallet. No cards. No keys. No cash. Nothing. Crane, he thinks, you’ve really done it.
Wait… in his right rear pants pocket, he finds something. A folded piece of paper. He pulls it out and opens it. It has five words on it, in a typewriter font:
Welcome to your new life.
Chapter 5
DAMN IT’S hot! Still early morning, But Bron is already sweating through the back of his shirt. He scans the horizon in every direction. Nothing. Okay, Tyler, make a decision. The sun is there. That’s east. So the road runs north–south. Pick a direction. Flip a coin. Oh… right. No coins. Then north it is. He starts walking.
Bron feels like his brain is frying. He’s wondering how Crane knew there’s nothing he hates worse than sun and heat—or was it just a lucky guess? “Well,” Bron says to himself, “I asked for a new life. Let’s hope it gets better than this.”
Grandpa Alvarez is singing along to a Hispanic pop station in his 1998 F-150. His grandson, Gonzalo, is on the bench seat beside him. Since Gonzalo’s parents died, this ten-year-old has been the light of his grandfather’s life. It’s just the two of them against the world. Three—if you count Gonzalo’s pet rooster, sitting calmly on the skinny boy’s lap.
Gonzalo is the first to spot the speck in the road ahead.
“¡Mira! ¿Qué es esso?”
Grandpa stops mid-verse and squints. Unbelievable. What kind of idiota would be alone on the road out here? He looks for an abandoned vehicle. Nothing. They get closer. A hiker? No way. Not dressed like that.
Bron hears the hum of the pickup before he sees it. And now that it’s approaching, he does something he’s seen only in pictures: he sticks out his thumb.
The truck pulls off onto the shoulder. The passenger door creaks open. Bron slides onto the bench seat, squeezing Gonzalo into the middle, closer to his abuelo. Bron exhales a breath of relief.
“Thanks,” he says, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Thanks very much.”
“De nada,” says the boy. “I’m Gonzalo. That’s my grandpa.”
“I’m Tyler. Nice to meet you both.”
The bird offers a guttural cluck.
Grandpa looks down at Bron’s black Ferragamo loafers, now coated with a fine film of dust. He starts laughing.
“¡Loco!” says grandpa. “¡Una serpiente de cascabel picaría a través de sus zapatillas!”
Bron is fluent in Mandarin, but that won’t help him here. Gonzalo translates:
“Grandpa says a rattlesnake would bite right through your slippers.”
Terrific. Bron knows the great outdoors was never his strong suit. For the past twenty years, his climate has been hermetically controlled, along with everything else in his life. He feels like all his senses are blasting on full alert for the first time in a long time. Maybe ever.
The blazing white sand. The smell of gasoline and stale sweat. The throbbing heat in the cab of the truck. The rush of hot air from the open windows.
And then there’s that bird. Big. Ugly. Menacing. It looks Bron up and down with black, beady eyes.
“Nice chicken,” Bron says to Gonzalo.
“Cock,” says Gonzalo. “His name is Zapata. Go ahead. You can pet him.”
On the list of things Bron wants to do right now, this is dead last. He extends his hand slowly. Zapata’s head swivels like a dashboard ornament.
Suddenly the bird lets out an unearthly squawk and drives his beak toward Bron’s extended fingers. Bron pulls away sharply, a nanosecond from getting seriously pecked. Damn it! An attack rooster!
Gonzalo tugs the surly bird back into his lap. “No! ¡Malo Zapata! That’s no way to treat a guest!”
Grandpa turns the radio back up and begins to hum along to a Spanish pop song. Bron tries to ask Grandpa a question above the music.
“Excuse me? Hey! Señor! Where am I?”
This much English, Grandpa understands.
“En el medio de la nada,” he says, chuckling. Bron looks to Gonzalo for the translation.
Two words:
“You’re nowhere.”
Chapter 6
HOW IS this happening? It’s way beyond me, and it’s making my head spin.
I’m sitting in a huge, climate-controlled hangar just a few miles away, seeing this whole scene play out almost as if I were inside the pickup. I’m watching it all on a sports bar–size screen, and every word is crystal clear.
“Boost the resolution a little,” says Daisy to one of her techs. She’s standing at a console under the big screen—totally on her game, and totally ignoring me.
I can see that Bron is anxious—and really sweaty. I feel kind of guilty sitting here nibbling M&M’s. But not really. He’s the one who wanted a change, right? So I decided to swing for the fences. And true to her word, Daisy is making it happen.
I wrote the most remote location I could think of, and there it is—for real—right before my eyes.
I admit, the three hours I spent in the back of the cargo plane last night were a little bumpy. Not exactly first-class accommodations. But everything got here in one piece. Me. Daisy. A bunch of hi-tech whiz kids. And a pile of complicated electronic stuff—plus my trusty Selectric, safe and sound.
From the outside, the hangar looks like it has gone through a nuclear bomb test. But inside, I have to say, Daisy and her minions have done it up nice. Blond wood tables, glass desks, slick workstations. Even a few sofas and some semi-comfortable sleeping cubicles. Our own little world in the middle of the desert.
“Got everything you need, sir?” asks one of the techies.
“I could use a beer.”
“It’s 10:00 a.m.,” says Daisy from a few yards away. Point taken.
She must have bought out eBay’s backlog of Selectric typewriter ribbon, because I’ve got about twenty extra cartridges stacked in a box by my desk. Not to mention five reams of twenty-pound extra-white typing paper. Enough for a few novels. Or one new life. Which is why we’re here—why I wrote Bron here. Way out of his comfort zone. Way out of mine.
In fashion news… Daisy has ditched the business suit for tight black jeans and a Bron Aerospace polo shirt. Change in look, but not in attitude. In fact, she’s already told me to stop asking questions. Twice. I don’t know why, but something about her makes me want to press her buttons.
“Drones—am I right? We’re using drones!” I ask. A guy has a right to be curious.
“Switch to vector two point four,” she tells the tech. It’s like I’m not even here.
We watch Grandpa make a turn from one dusty, godforsaken road onto another. Then she turns to me.
“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “Not your arena. Just keep writing.”
She wiggles her fingers at me like typing.
“Let’s go, Shakespeare. What happens next?”
Chapter 7
GRANDPA BOUNCES over a deep rut in the road. Zapata squawks, and Bron nearly bounces into the roof of the truck cab. A sharp turn tosses him against the door.
The windshield is covered with a thick layer of dust. Grandpa hits the washer button. The wipers clear an arc in front of Bron just as the truck slows down and pulls into a small town. No warning. No signs. Suddenly, it’s just there.
Actually, “town” is an exaggeration. It’s more like a settlement—an odd assortment of low stucco and adobe buildings in the middle of an ocean of sand.
But compared to the last fifty miles, it’s a metropolis. It’s civilization. And Tyler Bron, micromanager, is ready to take control of his situation. He’s always been able to make things work. Why should this place be any different?
Grandpa pulls into a gas station with a single pump and a one-bay repair shop.
“Pit stop?” asks Bron.
“Nope,” says Gonzalo. “Home.”
Bron looks around. No way.
“Gonzalo, I need a favor. Can I borrow your cell phone?” Gonzalo shrugs as he sets Zapata down on the ground. The bird starts pecking the sand.
“No cell phones, señor,” says Gonzalo. “No service.”
Grandpa grips the pump handle as he fuels up the truck. Bron looks over and mimes holding a phone to his ear. Grandpa shakes his head and laughs.
“Are you kidding me?” Bron says. “This is unbelievable.” How much worse can it get?
“No cable, either,” says Gonzalo.
This is officially Bron’s worst nightmare: a world he can’t control with a keypad. He truly feels like he’s on a different planet. He needs a way to get his bearings again. Some way to manage things. Think!
Bron scans up and down the dusty main street. Butch and Sundance would feel totally at home here. Beyond the garage, he can see a bar, a diner, a hardware store, a stucco schoolhouse, and not much else.
Grandpa’s finished gassing up. He opens the door to the pickup, reaches behind the seat, and pulls out a battered straw sombrero. He tosses it to Bron like a Frisbee. Bron reaches, but misses. The sombrero lands in the dust.
“¡El sol se hará perder la cabeza!”
Gonzalo picks up the hat and hands it to Bron. “He says, ‘The sun will make you crazy.’”
“I think I might be crazy already,” says Bron. He could be sitting in his cool air-conditioned office right now, sipping a mineral water. What the hell has he gotten himself into?
Bron puts the hat on. Even his shadow looks ridiculous. But it offers a little shade for his eyes. He squints toward the edge of town and sees a building with faux pillars and gold gilt lettering on the window. A bank! Definitely not one of those too-big-to-fail banks—but still, a bank. Banks have money. And money, Bron thinks to himself, can fix just about anything.
He heads down the street, looking like one of the Three Amigos.
Inside the bank, manager Domingo Sanchez is filing papers. His teller, Maria, is filing her nails, bored out of her mind. It’s just the two of them. No customers yet.
Sanchez is looking prosperous. For him, banking is serious business, and he makes it a point to dress the part in a dark blue three-piece suit—even on days like this, when the heat makes him sweat through all three pieces.
Sanchez looks up as Bron walks through the door. The manager jumps up, suddenly energized. He snaps his fingers at Maria, who quickly drops the nail file into a pencil cup and sits up straight in her teller’s chair. Sanchez tugs his vest hem down over his belly and turns on his most welcoming smile.
“Buenos días. Good morning, sir! Domingo Sanchez, bank manager. How may I be of service today?”
Bron whips off the goofy sombrero and looks around. Two standard Steelcase desks. A few file cabinets. And a vault that says (no kidding), ACME SAFE COMPANY. But a bank is a bank, right? A bank can connect with other banks. Money can be wired. And money can put Bron right back where he’s used to being—in charge.
“Yes. Good morning. I need to access my accounts, please.”
Sanchez dabs a patch of sweat from his high forehead with a handkerchief. He beams. “Of course, of course, sir. And your accounts are currently located… where?”
“At Chase Bank. In Massachusetts.”
“Massachusetts. You’re quite a ways from home, then. Vacation?”
“Right,” says Bron, “let’s go with that.”
“Well, that’s fine, fine. No problem at all, Mister…?”
“Bron. Tyler Bron.” He wonders for a millisecond if his name might ring a bell. But nothing.
Sanchez motions toward a chair in front of his tidy desk. “Mister Bron. Please.”
Bron sits. Sanchez takes a seat behind the desk and straightens two thick pens in front of him, ready for business.
“All right then, Mr. Bron. First things first. All I need are two forms of ID.”
ID? Oh, shit.
Chapter 8
SOMEWHERE, THOUSANDS of miles away, there are bank and brokerage accounts in Tyler Bron’s name, with ten juicy digits in the balance columns. Billions, just sitting there. But here, Bron is experiencing something he’s never felt in his life. The feeling of being a nobody.
It’s not a great feeling.
Bron steps out of the bank into the blinding sun, trying to adjust to the notion of being practically penniless. He spots Gonzalo riding his battered two-wheeler down the middle of the street. Gonzalo spots Bron and skids to a stop, kicking up a cloud of dust. He reads Bron’s expression.
“¿Qué pasa?” says Gonzalo. “¿No dinero?”
Bron jerks his thumb back toward the bank. “You know Mister Sanchez?”
“Señor Sanchez? Sí.”
“Well, he’s a real stickler for rules.”
Bron tugs out the lining of his pockets like a clown. At least he’s trying to keep a sense of humor about it. If he expected a challenge, Crane has definitely delivered. But what now? He can’t hike out of here. He’d be buzzard meat within an hour. So, what now?
“You need a place to stay—no money?” asks Gonzalo.
Bron thinks for a second. “You know a place?”
Gonzalo pops a wheelie and circles his hand in the air, like Lawrence of Arabia leading a charge.
“Señor! This way!”
The town motel is located a block beyond the gas station, tucked behind a small warehouse. It’s just a one-room office with seven tiny units lined up across a tiled courtyard. Decades of desert sun have faded the colors to pale pastels. A wooden walkway runs in front of the units, widening in the center to a common deck with a few lounge chairs and umbrellas.
The Four Seasons, it’s not.
Gonzalo lays his bike down and waits for Bron to catch up. Bron rounds the corner and looks up at a blinking neon sign, Motel Alvarez. Below it is a wooden panel with a single word: VACANCY.
Gonzalo holds the door open. Bron walks into the dimly lit office. The manager is at the front desk, leaning casually on a dog-eared leather register.
Of course. It figures.
Hello again… Grandpa.
Chapter 9
OH, MY God!”
Who knew a simple shower could feel this good? Bron turns slowly under the flow as sweat and sand wash out of his hair and every remote nook and cranny of his body. The pipes creak and the water never gets past lukewarm, but no matter. Right now, lukewarm is heaven. Worth every penny of the forty-dollar-per-night room fee, reluctantly waived by Grandpa—but only until Bron can dig up some actual cash. Worry about that later. For now, this is bliss.
As Bron steps out of the shower, there’s a knock on the door. He wraps a towel around his waist and peeks out through the peephole. It’s Gonzalo, bearing gifts.
“¡Hola, Señor Tyler!”
Through the half-open door, Gonzalo hands Bron a pair of faded cargo shorts and a few STP T-shirts. Then a pair of rubber sandals.
“Hope they fit,” says Gonzalo.
“Thanks, Gonzalo. They’ll be fine. Really. Thank you.”
“Give me your clothes,” says Gonzalo. “I’ll get them cleaned for you.”
Bron wraps his sweaty slacks, shirt, briefs, and socks in an
extra towel and hands them over. Gonzalo tucks the packet under his arm and runs toward the office building. He calls back, “Ready mañana! On the house!”
Bron has never been crazy about kids. They’ve always made him uncomfortable. But he has to admit, this one is a real find.
He slips on the shorts and T-shirt, hangs up the wet towel, and flops onto the bed for the only thing better than a nice warm shower—a nice long nap.
His eyes close… he starts to drift off… Minutes pass… maybe hours…
And then, suddenly:
“All I do is WIN, WIN, WIN…!”
The pumping sound of DJ Khaled wakes Bron with a start. And it’s not just the music. It’s the sound of two strong male voices singing along with gusto. The bed is so close to the window, Bron can roll over and peek through the blind slats.
“What the…?”
The music is blaring from the deck out front. Sitting there in facing lounge chairs are two guys in bathing suits, shirts open, both wearing Ray-Bans. On the deck between them is a portable speaker connected to an iPhone. Resting on their chests—outrageously large cocktails. In the real world, Bron would think about picking up the phone to complain about the noise. But this is not the real world. Also, there’s no phone.
Bron emerges tentatively from his room, rubbing his eyes against the late afternoon glare. The two guys look up and whip off their sunglasses at the same time.
“Oh, no!” says one. “We are so rude!”
“Wow. Sorry. We didn’t realize there was anybody else here!” adds the other. “Apologies for the concert. Really, man… so sorry.”
Bron’s fellow guests look like a pair of All-American quarterbacks—with a swagger to match. They’re immediately friendly, charming, and irresistible—totally comfortable in their own skin. From the look of them, they appear to have life figured out. Even here.
“Don’t worry about it,” says Bron. “I’m Tyler.”
“I’m Timo,” says the one with the blond crew cut and the elaborate angel tat on his chest.