It’s a crazy combination of whirring and pounding—coming from somewhere above me. My bookshelves start to rattle. I crouch my way to the front window.
I see a bright spotlight beam swinging across the roof of the Duffys’ house next door. Treetops are bending like straws. The noise gets louder and louder. Closer and closer.
THUNKA, THUNKA, THUNKA!
I’m thinking terrorist attack, tornado, alien abduction… and I know it’s not just the tequila. Whatever it is—it’s real.
I’m squinting out the window, and I see a shape descending from the sky and setting down in the empty field on the other side of my house.
It’s a helicopter! But not one of those chunky traffic choppers. This one is small, sleek, elegant. And now it’s about fifty feet away from me, blowing the lids off my trash cans.
The rotor blades are still spinning. A guy hops out and ducks against the prop wash. He crosses the driveway and heads straight for my front door. I open it just as he’s coming up my front steps. Whoever it is, he looks like he just stepped off a yacht. Or an ultra-cool helicopter.
“Mr. Crane? Damian Crane?”
I’m staring over the guy’s shoulder at the chopper. My eyes are so wide I probably look like Bart Simpson.
“Right. Yes. That’s me…”
The white strobe on the belly of the chopper is lighting up the ground in quick, bright blasts. Emergency landing? What else could it be?
“Everybody okay?” I ask. “Should I call 911?” But the guy is totally calm.
“No need,” he says. “Everything is fine. Can we talk?”
The chopper engines are powering down. Good thing the neighbors are away. Mrs. Duffy throws a fit when I turn up my Beats on the porch. She’d have a stroke over this. The guy steps inside. Trim. Good-looking. But really pale. He gets right down to business. There’s no mistake. It’s me he’s looking for.
“Mr. Crane,” he says, “my name is Tyler Bron. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of me, but… I’m a computer engineer.”
The name is quasi-familiar. Maybe from the business pages. Or CNN?
“I founded Bron Aerospace. That’s my company.”
Now it clicks. Tyler Bron. Bron Aerospace. Right. Shuttle supply missions, satellite communications, air force contracts—the works. That would explain the state-of-the-art transportation. And, by the way, “computer engineer” is underselling it just a bit. Tyler Bron is a certified Steve Jobs–level genius, not to mention a mega-billionaire. And for some reason, he’s standing in my living room.
“Good to meet you. But please… call me Damian.”
We shake hands. I toss aside a pile of notebooks and pizza boxes to clear some room for him to sit. Embarrassing. This guy’s pants cost more than my sofa.
Bron is polite, but a little awkward and nervous. If I were describing him in a book, I’d say, “distracted.” But the big questions are: What does he want with me? Why the hell is he here? He presses his palms together and starts in.
“First, Mr. Crane… Damian… I need to tell you that I’m a fan. I love everything you’ve ever written.”
That’s definitely a first for me.
“Oh—so you’re the one,” I say. I know, I know—obvious joke. But the thing is, it goes right past him. He’s totally sincere—not bullshitting me in the least. He really seems to like my stuff. He starts quoting from Esquire pieces and newspaper profiles I wrote ten years ago—stuff I’d totally forgotten. Then he spills out his problem.
Turns out, he’s done nothing but work since the day he dropped out of MIT to start his company. He’s been on the job 24/7 since then. No rest. No vacations. No downtime. He’s got more money than he’ll ever need, but it doesn’t mean anything to him anymore. He’s got no time to enjoy it.
“The truth is, Damian, I’ve been starting to think about everything I don’t have. No family, no friends, no personal relationships.”
“I’m forty years old,” he says, “and I have zero human connections. None.”
I’m sitting there listening to his story—and I don’t know what to say. I like the guy. I guess I feel sorry for him in a way, but what does any of this have to do with me? I’m no psychologist. I’m so nervous I blurt out the only comforting thing I can think of.
“Want a drink?”
I know I do.
He shakes his head. Then he leans forward.
“Damian, as I said… you’re the best writer I know.”
I’m still trying to absorb that unlikely fact. And now he lands the kicker:
“I want you to write me a life.”
Chapter 2
TIME OUT. Now this is officially getting strange. A guy this rich needs a favor from me?
“Write you a life? Wait. You mean… you want me to put you in a novel?” That’s not a problem. In my last book, I made my mailman a serial killer.
He shakes his head again.
“No. What I want, Damian, is for you to write a whole new existence for me. In the real world. Whatever you create on the page will happen in real life. I have people who can make it happen. Cost is no object. If you agree, my associate can be here in the morning to arrange everything.”
Maybe I’m dense. This is not really computing in my feeble brain. But Bron is dead serious. And let’s be honest. Look around. What have I got to lose?
“Hold on,” I say. “For just one minute, let’s pretend that this is even remotely possible. What kind of life would you want?”
Tyler Bron stands up and smiles, just a little.
“Surprise me.”
Chapter 3
Bam! Bam! Bam!
Oh, God have mercy. My head is splitting. I’m crumpled on my sofa under a blanket, wondering if last night was some kind of hallucination.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
My front door again. Doorbell broken. Must… answer. I run my hands over my belly. Still wearing my Red Sox T-shirt. Briefs? Check. Just need to pull on my jeans. I stand up. Whoa there, cowboy! Dizzy… queasy… shaky. The trifecta.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
“Who the f—??! Coming!”
I lurch across the living room. What the hell time is it? Six a.m.!? Christ.
I open the front door, hoping it’s a Jehovah’s Witness I can yell at. Instead…
“Mr. Crane? I’m Daisy DeForest. Tyler Bron’s associate. Mr. Bron said you’d be expecting me.”
Business suit. Hair pulled back. Thirty-five, maybe. Attractive, if you like the buttoned-up type. But way too intense for this hour of the morning. I rub my eyes, trying hard to focus. Truth is, after last night, I don’t know what to expect.
“Wow. Okay. I guess he wasn’t kidding.” I mumble my words, trying not to project too much. Right now, my breath would singe her eyebrows.
“No. He wasn’t. Can we get started? We’ve got a lot to get through.”
Quite the drill sergeant, this one.
“Now? Okay. Wait. So… I… what do I need…?”
“Nothing. Just you. Let’s go.”
I hold up my index finger in the universal sign for “wait a sec,” and go back in to find my shoes. I pop into the bathroom for a hit of Listerine and smear on some deodorant. When I head back through the living room, my new best friend is already in her car, engine revving. A jet-black Audi RS 7.
First observation: Daisy does not drive like a daisy. She peels out of my driveway spitting gravel, and before I can blink we’re on I-93, doing 95. She pulls up to within five inches of an eighteen-wheeler’s backside before drafting around it, punching it up to 110 as she passes.
To be honest, I’m only guessing at the speed, because I’m gripping the handhold for dear life and staring straight ahead. Conversation? Forget it. I’m just trying not to lose the mostly liquid contents of my stomach.
Somewhere near the New Hampshire border, we fly down an exit ramp and start winding down a back road like it’s Le Mans. I spot a speed limit sign, but it’s just a blur. Now we’re turning into a private roadway. The speed bumps slow her down slightly. We pass a rough granite obelisk with BRON AEROSPACE etched into it. Impressive. Classy. Expensive.