That having been his first job after graduating junior college, it was an inauspicious launch of his professional life.

Following his dismissal, he had spent an anxious month of unemployment before seeing the online notice of an open position in Penton, Texas, for Welch’s Mercantile. Never having heard of either, he had looked them up on the internet.

Both the town and the position at Welch’s had seemed to Brian to be as unprepossessing as he. But for a young man who’d grown up in the Steel Belt, the geographical area with its dense pine forests and mystical-looking lake held some allure. Also, it promised escape from the only house in which he had ever lived, with his pipsqueak father and domineering mother.

He had submitted his application, figuring that a relocation to Texas was about as adventurous as he was likely ever to get.

Little had he known then.

He survived the rounds of interviews conducted over the telephone and was awarded the position. He packed his car to the gills and made the move. He signed a lease on a duplex whose best feature was that the rent included a cable hookup.

The hearty friendliness of the people, as well as their accent, would take some getting used to. He had a virulent gastrointestinal experience with his first Tex-Mex meal. But the mystifying lake, whose lore included a sasquatch, lived up to the pictures he had seen online. His new situation held promise.

That was dashed on his first day on the job.

His boss had shaken his hand, welcomed him to the accounts receivable/payable department. Then, with badly capped teeth glittering, he had said, “You mess up, you’re history.”

He was a strutting, bandy-legged tyrant to whom management and terrorism were synonymous. Brian was a perfect target for his scornful putdowns. Within a week of his employment, Brian had become miserable.

However, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—pack up and go home and have his mother tell him, “I told you so.” He resolved to tough it out for as long as he could stand it, telling himself that there would come a day.

That day had come in early January.

He had returned to the store from his lunch break when he’d collided, literally, with a young man with spiky orange hair.

“Hey, sorry, man,” he’d said. “Didn’t see you. This damn thing.” He’d shifted the cumbersome box from beneath his left arm to beneath his right. “My mom sent me to get a refund.” He’d snorted contempt. “My dad’s idea of a romantic Christmas present for her. Pots and pans. Seriously? Even I know better.”

Unable to think of anything else to say, Brian remarked that the cookware set had been on sale through Christmas Eve.

“Probably was when my old man bought it. Last minute, you know. Anyhow, she sent me to bring it back. Didn’t know there would be such a damn long line.”

He’d leaned in a little closer and lowered his voice. “I thought about walking the box back to the housewares section and just leaving it there on the shelf, screw the refund. But they’ve got cameras everywhere,” he’d said, glancing up at the ceiling. “If somebody saw me do it and wondered What the hell is he up to?, I’d have to spend time explaining. Just as well stand in line.”

“The cameras aren’t real. They’re for show.”

“Get out!” the young man had exclaimed in a stage whisper. “They’re fakes?”

“Yes.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“No.”

“How do you know? Do you work here?”

“Accounting.”

“A bean counter, huh?” He had said it with good humor, not like he was deriding Brian. “You must be really smart. Me and numbers? Forget it. PE and lunch are my standout subjects.”

PE and lunch had been Brian’s worst two hours of the school day, but he chuckled as though he shared the joke.

“How long have you worked here?”

“I signed on just in time for the Christmas season.”

“Oh, man. How bad did that suck?”

Brian was enjoying being talked to in the vernacular. Although the stranger was a few years younger than he, he was conversing with him in the casual manner of one man to another, and that rarely happened to Brian. Correction: It never happened to Brian.

However, as much as he was enjoying it, he remembered the time. “Well, I’m due back from lunch. Have a nice day.” He’d been about to move off when the young man waylaid him.

“Say, listen. Could you help me out here? Since you’re an employee, you could jump this out-of-sight line, right?”

“Well, I—”

“Just carry this box behind the counter like it’s your business. I’ve got the receipt. My old man paid cash. Should be a no-brainer to get the money back. What do you say?”

Brian had hesitated and was still considering it when the kid had nudged him with his elbow. “Grandpa Welch probably wouldn’t appreciate a new employee telling a customer that the security cameras are bogus.”

A wave of dizziness swept over Brian. He had actually felt the blood draining from his head. He heard his mother calling him a dumb bunny.

But then the young man had thrown his head back and laughed. “You should see your face,” he’d chortled. “I’m harmless. Swear I am. My old man is the sheriff.”

Brian’s knees had gone weak with relief.

“Had you going there, didn’t I?”

Brian had tried to laugh at the teasing, but achieved only a squeaky sound.

“I’m sorry. Really. Now, what about doing me this little favor?”

Brian heard himself say, “Sure.”

Bravely, he’d jumped the line of disgruntled customers. Even the employee working the counter gave him grief until Brian had told her that he was acting on behalf of the sheriff’s son.

“Rusty?”

Brian wasn’t sure what to make of the way she raised her penciled brow and gave a sour-sounding harrumph.

He returned to where he’d left the young man waiting and counted out his refund. “The lady at the counter said your name is Rusty.”

“Rusty Dyle. What’s yours?”

“Brian Foster.”

“I don’t forget favors, Brian. Thanks.” After pocketing the refunded money, he’d given Brian an assessing once-over. “Got a wife?”

“No.”

“Live-in girlfriend?”

“No.”

“You gay?”

“No.”

“Great. Let’s hang out. What’s your phone number?”

Brian’s boss had been waiting for him at his desk, fuming over his lateness. Brian calmly had said, “I’m a few minutes late because I was doing a favor for Sheriff Dyle’s son. If you have a problem with that, I suggest you take it up with him.”

He had never felt more like a man.

Rusty had phoned him the very next day and invited him to meet at a spot on the lake. “You’ve turned twenty-one, right?”

“Almost twenty-two.”

“Awesome. You get to buy the six-pack.”

They had three more beer-drinking sessions before Rusty broached the subject of the burglary. He’d prefaced it with: “This might sound crazy. Hell, it is crazy. But what’s life all about if you don’t take a few risks?”

Brian had risked his livelihood—everything—in order to pull off the burglary. He was already dreading Monday and the playacting he would have to do. And now Rusty was asking him to take yet another risk.

They’d gotten away clean. Then that broody boy with the blue eyes had gotten himself arrested, and Rusty was convinced that he would betray them. Rusty wanted Brian to help him hide the money.

Brian wanted to throw up.

How had he gotten himself into this mess? After tonight, and for the rest of his life, he would be a criminal. Him. Dull, drab, blah Brian Foster. Nobody would believe it of him. His mother wouldn’t believe it of him. He didn’t believe it of himself.

Maybe this was a bizarre and elaborate nightmare from which he would soon wake up.

But Rusty had also said that they needed to set up Joe Maxwell as their fall guy.

Brian didn’t know Mr. Maxwell well. When he’d been fired from Welch’s, Brian had had the misfortune of having to give him his severance check. Taking his anger out on Brian, Joe had given him a tongue-lashing that had been heavy on expletives.

But a few days later, Mr. Maxwell had called to apologize for his outburst. “I’m sorry I created that scene. It wasn’t your fault I got canned.”

Coworkers had enlightened Brian to Mr. Maxwell’s lamentable history, being left a widower, losing his business. Given the circumstances, Brian had thought the apology was most decent of the man.

While Brian was thinking back on that phone call, and the moral fiber Joe Maxwell had exhibited by making it, Rusty had been enumerating all the traits that made the older man the perfect scapegoat.