Two from the Heart(36)

Willow stops at a small study carrel in the back of the room and makes an adorably awkward “ta-dah” motion. Behold… the computer! A Dell desktop model—from the mid-1990s. The boxy monitor sits on top of a CPU with two slots for floppy disks. Over nearly three decades, the cabinet and keyboard have gone from beige to brownish. A museum piece for sure.

“Wow,” says Bron, “I think I used one of these once… in high school.”

“Well,” says Willow, “it doesn’t get a lot of use here. So I’m sure it’s good as new.”

The space is tight, but even so, Willow is standing a little bit closer than necessary. Bron can smell the fragrance of herbal shampoo radiating from her hair. And something else? Can’t be. He must be imagining it.

“All right then,” says Willow, clapping her palms together. “I will leave you to it!”

“Do I need a password?” Bron asks.

“Nope. Already logged in.”

Bron sits down at the ancient machine and clicks the only browser icon on the screen: AOL.

Nothing. Then… Ssssssssssssss Boing, Boing, Boing! Click.

“Dial up. Of course,” Bron mutters to himself.

Somehow, back at her desk, Willow overhears him.

“Need help with the technology back there?”

“Nope,” Bron calls back, “I think I’ve got it.”

The download time is glacial. Excruciating. Ten whole minutes for Bron to view his company website, where he discovers that he has taken a leave of absence.

He taps out the password for his company email. “Address disabled.” He tries Google Mail. His account is gone—vaporized. Same with LinkedIn, bank and brokerage passwords. Everything.

Impressive, Bron thinks. Crane has really thought of everything. In the digital universe, Tyler Bron no longer exists. No timeline. No profiles. No history. Just the now.

He rolls back in the chair and lets out a long breath. His old world is gone, but what’s left? When he asked Crane to write him a life, this is not what he had in mind. Not by a long shot.

Willow is at the front desk reading a reflexology book as Bron emerges from the back.

“All good?” she asks.

“Well,” says Bron, “I learned some things about myself.”

“Good for you,” she says. “Namaste.”

Just as he reaches the door, Bron has a thought. He turns. Willow looks up and smiles. Pretty.

“One more question. Have you read any books by an author named Damian Crane?”

Willow gives it some thought, then shakes her head. “Nope. Sorry. Never heard of him.”





Chapter 13


SONOVABITCH! GODDAMN hi-tech crap!”

Pico Fuentes, proprietor of Pico’s Auto Repair & Body Shop, is pissed off big-time. He heaves a repair manual into the wall on the other side of the garage, barely missing the passion-red Mazda in the repair bay.

Pico is sixty-five and feeling every day of it. He’s old enough to remember when cars were really cars, with vent windows and ashtrays and hood ornaments… and carburetors. He really misses carburetors. Now it’s all electronic fuel injection, oxygen sensors, and on-board diagnostic protocols. He’s got the hood open on a 2006 Dodge Dakota and he might as well be staring into the goddamn space shuttle.

The last thing he needs right now is visitors. But he’s about to get some.

Oh, no. Please. Not again. They’re back. And now with a third one?

“Pico, my man! ?Qué pasa?” calls Luke.

“We’re here to check on the patient!” says Timo.

Today, for the first time, Bron tags along. It’s his first visit to Pico’s since he rolled into town with Grandpa and Gonzalo two weeks ago. Seems like about two light-years.

As Bron steps into the garage with his buddies, he gets smacked with the odors of grease and oil and, to be blunt… of Pico. The temperature in the shop is pushing ninety, and those overalls haven’t seen the inside of a washing machine in a while. Pico is a big guy with a burly beard. Reminds Bron of a pre-diet Zac Brown. But a lot less cuddly.

“See for yourself,” says Pico with a snarl. He waves a meaty hand toward the drive train and rear differential on the floor.

“Your toy isn’t gonna fix itself. I still need parts. And the boys over in Miyoshi are taking their sweet time.”

“Almost a month now, Pico! How much longer?” asks Timo.

Pico shrugs. “Talk to Tojo.”

Luke walks over to the Miata and runs his hands soothingly over the hood. “Patience, baby, patience…”

“You boys can stroke your sweetheart for as long as you want,” says Pico, “but I got an emergency case here.” He opens the door to the Dakota and turns the ignition switch. A sad little click comes from the engine compartment.

“Damn it!”

Pico grabs a hand-held engine analyzer off his worktable and leans under the steering column to find the data port. With his bulk, it’s not a pretty sight. He’s breathing hard. Sweating hard. He extracts himself from the cab with a mighty heave, grunting like a walrus. He stares at the readout and tugs at his beard like he’s trying to pull it off.

“This code makes no goddamn sense!”

Bron is transfixed by the analyzer. His brain is alive and firing. This is the first piece of true twenty-first century technology he’s seen in two weeks. He feels compelled to touch it.