Gary Hargreaves let himself into the house a little after half past five, easing the door closed with the careful habit of a man who lived alone and preferred it quiet. The terrace had the familiar late-afternoon smell of Wolverhampton in wet weather—carpet that had seen too many winters, yesterday’s washing drying slowly over a radiator, the faint mineral tang of rain drifting in through the trickle vents above the windows.
He hung his jacket on the back of the kitchen chair and stood there for a moment, hands on the counter, letting the silence settle.
Forty-two years old, he thought, and this is the grand procession of it.
The warehouse shift had been the usual sort of thing: pallets, labels, a forklift whining somewhere in the distance like an irritated insect. Four hours of it. Not difficult work. Not especially interesting either. But it paid enough.
He filled the kettle from the tap and switched it on.
What would be the point of going full-time? he thought.
He said it half aloud, the way people sometimes did when they lived by themselves.
“What would be the point, eh?”
The kettle hummed quietly.
Full-time meant more money, of course. More hours, more responsibility, more of the same concrete floor beneath fluorescent lights. But the sums didn’t really demand it. The rent was manageable, the council tax predictable, and the rest of his life required surprisingly little.
I pay my bills, he told himself.
And then he caught the thought before it finished forming.
Well… maybe if you were full-time, you could travel.
He stood there with the mug halfway to the cupboard.
Travel.
“Travel where, exactly?” he said to the empty kitchen.
The kettle clicked off.
He leaned back against the counter and folded his arms.
“When’s the last time you travelled, mate?”
The answer came quickly enough.
Never.
Not properly. Not anywhere that required planning. He vaguely remembered his mother arranging a passport for him once, thirty years ago perhaps, when there had been some talk of a cheap holiday in Spain. The trip had never happened. The passport had expired quietly in a drawer somewhere.
He had never left the United Kingdom.
Not once in forty-two years.
Gary snorted to himself and reached for a teabag.
“Get a hold of yourself.”
Travel, honestly.
The rain had begun again outside, soft and steady against the windows. Across the street the brick terraces sat in their usual damp procession beneath a sky the colour of old aluminium.
He carried the mug into the small front room and sat down at the computer.
The machine woke slowly, as though it too had just come home from work.
Emails waited in the corner of the screen. Nothing urgent, nothing personal. Newsletters, delivery confirmations, the routine digital clutter of modern life.
Gary clicked through them lazily.
One subject line made him pause.
Missoula Archery Club – Weekend Practice Reminder
He frowned.
Advertising, probably.
Marketers had a habit of scooping up addresses from anywhere they could find them. He had seen stranger things arrive in his inbox before. But when he opened the message, the tone was oddly familiar.
Hi Frank,
Just a reminder that weekend practice is this Saturday afternoon. The range will be open from 2pm. Weather looks clear and we’re expecting a good turnout.
See you there.
Gary blinked at the screen.
Frank?
He checked the address line again.
Only his email address, no other cc'd in.
“Right,” he murmured.
Wrong mailing list, then.
He was about to delete it when another message slid into the inbox above it.
Missoula Swim Club – Lane Reservations
Gary clicked that one too, curiosity getting the better of him.
Hi Frank,
Lane reservations for this week are now open. Evening sessions tend to fill quickly, so make sure to book ahead if you’re planning to swim.
See you at the pool.
Gary leaned back in the chair.
Frank, archery clubs, swimming pools—apparently all of it taking place in a town called Missoula that he was fairly certain he had never even heard of before today.
He hovered the mouse over the delete button.
Spam, obviously.
Still, the messages had a strange specificity to them. They weren’t trying to sell anything. They weren’t even asking for anything. Just reminders, as though whoever Frank was had a perfectly ordinary social life somewhere in ... Missoula?
Gary closed the email and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Strange.”
Outside, a car rolled slowly through the rain.
He was just about to shut the laptop when his mobile phone rang on the table beside him.
The number was unfamiliar. International, by the look of it.
Gary stared at the screen for a moment, puzzled.
Then he answered.
“Hello?”
There was a brief hiss of static on the line.
And then a woman’s voice—warm, relaxed, unmistakably American.
“Hi, Frank,” she said. “How you been doing?”
Gary opened his mouth.
And for a second he didn’t say anything at all.