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Terry jumped through the DMV’s hoops. In a battle of endurance, he waited in line to apply for his license then lined up to take the written test so that he could make an appointment for the driving test itself. It was early afternoon when they left.

“Thank God that’s over,” Terry said, pushing the door open.

“What did I tell you?” Oscar asked.

“It’s on a par with your immigration department.”

“When you get your license, whatever you do, don’t let it expire or you’ll have to do it all over again.”

Oscar held the door open for a teenager, obviously coming in for her first license. She didn’t acknowledge Oscar’s chivalry. From the stricken look on her face, her mind was focused on one thing and one thing only—her test. Her mother thanked him on her daughter’s behalf.

Oscar released the door then cried out. Somehow, he’d gotten his hand trapped between the closing doors. His hand was folded in half and his thumb flopped loosely against his palm at an unnatural angle. He cradled his hand to his chest.

The mother and daughter burst back out of the building at the commotion. The mother saw Oscar’s damaged hand, blanched, and turned away. The daughter just stared.

“Jesus,” Terry said. “Are you okay?”

“It’s nothing,” Oscar said, wincing. “It’s dislocated, that’s all. Happens all the time.”

Without any fuss, Oscar snapped his thumb back into place with a wet click. Terry’s stomach churned at the sound, and for a second he thought the mother was going to vomit.

“See, all fixed now. Nothing for anyone to worry about.”

“I feel so responsible,” the mother said. Although Oscar had demonstrated his hand was back to normal, her color wasn’t returning.

“Don’t be. It was my own stupid fault. My cuff got caught on the door handle.”

Seeing there was nothing more to be done, the mother took Oscar’s explanation as reason enough to leave. She apologized to him again and scurried back into the building dragging her daughter with her.

“Are you really okay?” Terry asked.

“Yeah, really. It tingles a bit, but honestly, it’s okay.”

“Can you drive?”

Oscar flexed his hand and winced. “It might be a better idea if you do.”

Oscar fished out his keys and gave them to Terry. They got into the 4Runner and Terry started the engine.

“Do you want to see a doctor?”

“No, it’s an old injury. There’s nothing they can do.” Oscar smiled. “C’mon, stop fussing and let’s get something to eat.”

Oscar directed Terry to drive to a small strip mall half a mile away. Terry pulled up in front of a sandwich shop. They got two made-to-order sandwiches, and Terry paid while Oscar found seats. As Terry brought their food over to the table and sat down, Oscar was still flexing his hand.

“Better?” Terry asked.

“Oh, yeah. Good as new.”

“You said that was an old injury.” Terry nodded at Oscar’s hand. “What happened?”

“I used to be a welder, and a ten-inch pipe rolled off my bench onto my hand. The thumb joint was damaged, so it dislocates easily. But it does go back just as easily.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No, not really. After the initial shock, it tingles like pins and needles.”

“Well, it’s an impressive party trick.”

“Oh, yeah, a real icebreaker.”

They unwrapped their bulging sandwiches and attacked them. Oscar mumbled through a mouthful of food that the sandwiches were good, and Terry grunted in the affirmative. Terry washed down his mouthful of food with his lemonade and wiped his mouth on a napkin.

“So if you were a welder, how come you own the Gold Rush?”

“I used to own a welding and fabrication company. I was doing really well, and I decided I wanted to retire early, so I sold the business. But I found retirement really boring, so when I saw the place up for sale, I bought it.”

Oscar was holding something back. Terry could feel it. He didn’t think Oscar was lying to him, but he was definitely leaving something out.

“So what is this job you’re starting next week, Terry?” Oscar asked, diverting attention away from himself.

“I’m a scientist.”

“Very cool. A real-life brainiac,” Oscar said, perking up.

Terry shook his head. “Not really. I’m no Nobel Prize–winning, changing-life-as-we-know-it kind of scientist. Scientist is a very common term. I don’t come up with the technology. I just prove whether it works or not. I’m no different than a car mechanic. It sounds fancy, that’s all.”

“Sounds very fancy compared to a guy who hands people rubber-headed golf clubs for a living.”

They finished up their lunch, and Oscar drove back to Edenville. Their next stop was the bank. The Wells Fargo bank was an old stucco-clad building with a brick facade.

“I didn’t know Wells Fargo was a real company. I thought it was a name made up for the movies.”

Oscar laughed. “Oh, no, they’re real enough.”

They went inside and Oscar asked a bank teller for the manager.

“And can I say who’s calling?” the woman asked.

“Yes, we have an appointment,” Oscar said. “Terry Sheffield and Oscar Mayer.”

“Oscar Mayer?” she asked with a smirk.

“Yes, Oscar Mayer,” he replied with a frown.

The woman hid a grin behind a hand. “I’ll get him for you.”

“What is it with your name?” Terry asked.

“You really don’t know?”

Terry shook his head.

Oscar eyed him for moment just in case Terry was messing with him. “Okay, I wish I could say it was a long story, but it isn’t. It’s the name of company that’s famous for their hot dogs and bologna here. They even have a damn song about their bologna. Go in the supermarket and you’ll see their stuff everywhere. It’s not the most ideal situation to be constantly equated with kids’ lunch food. As you can imagine, I took a lot of crap for it while growing up.”

“Oh,” Terry said after a moment. “I can see why that would bother you.”

“Mmm,” Oscar grunted. “They don’t carry Oscar Mayer in England?”

“Nope.”

“Maybe I should relocate.”

When the bank manager appeared, he took them into his office and Terry opened an account, relieving himself of the wad of cash he’d brought over on the flight. Within thirty minutes,
the bank manager presented Terry with a temporary checkbook, an ATM card, and an opening balance statement.

Rising to his feet, the manager asked, “Now, is there anything else I can do for you today, Mr. Sheffield?”

“Yes,” Terry replied. “Could you tell me if my wife has an account at this bank?”

The bank manager chuckled. “Don’t you know?”

“She’s missing,” Oscar said.

The bank manager stiffened. “Oh, I see.”

Terry explained the situation. The bank manager nodded at the appropriate times and looked pained.

“Unfortunately, even if your wife does have an account with us, I can’t divulge any details, even to you, unless it’s a joint account. I hope you understand.”

“Yes, I do. Can you check for a joint account?”

“Oh, yes.” The bank manager typed away at his PC for a minute before shaking his head. “I’m afraid there aren’t any accounts listing you as a joint holder. Maybe she has her account with another bank.”

“You’re probably right. Thanks for trying.”

“Sorry that I couldn’t help further. I hope you find her.”

“So do I.”

Terry and Oscar crossed the street and tried Edenville’s other bank, the Solano Credit Union. Terry didn’t have a joint account with them either.

Standing in front of the credit union, Oscar asked, “What do you want to do now? Talk to Holman?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Well, if you don’t mind, can I take you home? Then I can get back to the Gold Rush before the after-school crowd starts.”

“Of course not. You’ve helped me enough today.”

On the short ride back to Sutter Drive, Terry found himself thinking about his mystery caller. He still didn’t know if the
call was a random prank or something more sinister. He hadn’t intended on discussing the issue with Oscar, but he’d proved today he was a friend and someone he could trust.

“I want run something by you.”

“Go for it.”

“I got a weird phone call yesterday.”

“And you’ll be getting lots more once the telemarketers know you live in this country.”

“I wish it had been a telemarketer.”

“Oh,” Oscar said. “What was the call?”

“I don’t know. If I said it was an obscene call, I’d be exaggerating.”

“Let me decide for you. What did they say?”

“They didn’t say anything,” Terry said and went on to explain about the caller who had laughed at him.

“Huh,” Oscar said when Terry was finished. “Do you think it could have been Sarah?”

Terry shook his head. “No, this was a man’s laugh.”

“So who do you think this guy is?”

“Don’t know.”

“But you think it’s related to Sarah’s disappearing act?”

Terry nodded. “Yes.”

“Have you told Holman?”

“No, I wasn’t sure what I’d tell him. I don’t think laughing at someone on the phone is a crime.”

“Yeah, it’s probably something to keep to yourself for now. But you can be certain of one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“If your caller was someone connected to Sarah’s disappearance, he’ll call again.”

T
erry’s weekend passed without incident. The laughing caller didn’t call and neither did Sarah. Holman was his only caller and he had little to say. Terry didn’t see much point in sitting around the house driving himself crazy with worry, so he decided to go into Genavax on Monday, as scheduled.

At the reception desk, he asked for Pamela Dawson. When she arrived, she greeted him with the same offhand manner she’d used on the phone. She gave him a lightning-fast tour of the shared research, development, discovery, and testing labs punctuated with brief introductions to his new colleagues along the way. After the tour, Pamela dumped him with human resources.

Jenny Kuo, the human resources manager, greeted him with a broad grin, flashing a perfect set of white teeth, albeit one slightly too large for her mouth.

“You must be very excited to be working in a new country,” she said. “I know I was.”

Terry nodded, warming to her enthusiasm.

“Sorry to hear about your wife, though.”

Jenny escorted Terry to her office and proceeded to march him through his terms and conditions and benefits package. The topic of his vacation allowance left a bruise. The ten vacation days were a far cry from the five-week entitlement he had enjoyed as
the norm in England. Now he understood why American tour parties blasted through England as part of a five-day whirlwind tour of Europe. Jenny tried to soften the blow with personal days.

“Personal days, what’s that?”

“It’s your sick allowance for you and your family. If you have a sick family member to look after or need a mental health day, then take a day.”

“Mental health day?”

“If work or life is getting you down, you can take a day away from it all—a mental health day.” Jenny beamed, showing more healthy teeth.

Terry thought mental health days were a generous gesture, but they weren’t going to make up for his loss of vacation days. He felt the need for a mental health day just thinking about it.

A review of Genavax’s safety practices ate up the rest of the morning, and they broke for lunch. Jenny pointed out the staff cafeteria to Terry but excused herself from joining him. She had a lunch date elsewhere.

The lunchroom was a rectangle of duck’s-egg-blue blandness. It was small for supporting the hundred or so Genavax employees, but after reviewing the menu, he saw why Genavax didn’t require a larger lunchroom. Snack machines ran along one wall and seemed to be enjoying more fervent business.

Terry bought a tuna sandwich, a yogurt, and a carton of orange juice. He sat at a table by himself. He wasn’t up to the awkward new-guy intros. He spread out his small meal and a newspaper he’d swiped from reception. He hoped this display wouldn’t invite company.

His ploy worked for about five minutes.

“Dude, you the new guy?”

And you must be the surfer
, Terry thought. The tie-dyed T-shirted and jeans-clad man was everything the brochure said a Californian surfer should be. His shaggy blond locks and miles of deep tan relayed a “Surf’s up” attitude. The only problem was
that the surfer dude was a little too old for the image. He was closer to forty than twenty.

“English, right?”

“Yeah, I’m English,” Terry agreed.

“Cool. Very cool,” he said nodding to himself. “They said a foreign guy was starting.”

“I’m foreign, all right.”

“Jeez, I’m being rude. Kyle Hemple.” Kyle rubbed his palm on the back of his jeans and snapped out a hand.

Terry took it and shook. “Terry Sheffield.”

“D’you mind if I chow down with you?” Kyle indicated to a vacant chair.

“Knock yourself out.”

“Cool.”

Kyle deposited his lunch onto the table—mainly fruit, which rolled across Terry’s stolen newspaper. Apologizing, Kyle shepherded his lunch back to his side of the table. A wide-necked bottle containing a toxic-waste-green concoction caught Terry’s eye. Kyle noticed him looking.

“Wheatgrass,” he said, holding it up.

Kyle didn’t say anything for a while. He just stared at Terry, smiling and bobbing his head.

Terry froze in the middle of a spoonful of yogurt. “What?” he asked.

“You’re my first.”

Terry struggled to hold back one of Kyle’s grins. “First what?”

“You’re my first English guy.”

“Wow, really? I didn’t feel a thing.”

“Huh?”

Terry waved away his failed attempt at humor. “I hope it’s a good experience.”

“So far.” Kyle bobbed his head again. “Just wanted to let you know I have nothing against you and the whole Civil War thing between our two fair nations. In the past. Forgotten.”

“Don’t you mean the War of Independence?”

“Same difference, dude. Peach?” He held out the fruit as a peace offering.

“Thanks,” Terry said and took it, gracious in the honor of its meaning. He took a bite.

“The grapevine is humming with the news that your wife has gone AWOL. True?”