The Tale of Two Twins:
One Played It Safe, One Bought Bitcoin
Chapter 1: John saved cash. Tom bought Bitcoin
John and Tom are twin brothers born in Minnesota in the 1940s. Although very much identical on their DNA shells, in financial matters they thought worlds apart. The best example takes us back to the cold winter of January 2013.
Breakfast at the local diner
Over a simple breakfast at their local diner, they each made a financial choice that would ripple through the rest of their lives now in Florida.
“I just locked a 10-year CD at 2% interest, with the $12,000 we got from mother.” said John, stirring cream into his coffee. “It’s safe, insured by the FDIC, and guaranteed to grow. You should look into it.” Outside, snow swirled past frosted windows, and the wind cut through the city like a knife. Inside, the warmth of coffee and bacon grease softened the chill, and the smell of maple syrup clung to the air.
Tom grinned. “I bought Bitcoin with mine. It’s $13 a coin right now. Who knows—maybe that thing really takes off one day.”
John shook his head. “Brother, you just bought bitair,” he said, cracking open a packet of brown sugar. “Even Warren Buffett says it’s a mirage. Most of Wall Street says the same. No intrinsic value, no regulation, pure speculation. No way in heaven that thing doesn't go to hell soon. Come'on I thought you were smarter than that "little" bro”. John had always bragged that he was the elder twin because he was born 95 seconds prior to John.
Tom didn't say a word and grabbed the newspaper, trying to steer the conversation away from his brother’s crypto bashing. The front page was filled with stories about President Obama’s second inauguration, fiscal cliff negotiations in Congress, and the aftermath of the Sandy Hook shooting, which had reignited national debates over gun control. There were updates on job numbers slowly improving after the Great Recession, and speculation about whether the newly launched Affordable Care Act (aka Obama Care) would succeed or unravel. He rustled the pages as if to say, let's talk about something else.
Tom had read about Bitcoin's potential and how the blockchain technology of “decentralized ledgers” together with “digital scarcity” could make Bitcoin a great investment. However, he didn't want to get his brother involved, knowing that he was very persuasive and could make his change his mind. Instead, he turned the pages of the Star Tribune while sipping coffee. He flipped the paper open, shaking his head as he scanned headlines about subzero temps closing Minneapolis schools, lake ice thickness reports on Mille Lacs, and the Vikings' latest quarterback dilemma.
The Bitcoin Dilema
“Bitcoin,” John went again, adjusting his flannel collar like a man preparing to shovel snow. “It’s not real. Obama can freeze that thing anytime now before more people get scammed. He took a bite of his toast, and looked as his brother waiting for an answer.
Tom shrugged, wrapping his hands around his mug for warmth. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. Probably just tossed twelve grand into the snowbank, and that’ll be the end of it. But I figured, I can live with losing it. Wouldn’t be the end of the world.”
He paused, watching a snowplow rumble past the frosted diner window.
“But if that thing takes off like some folks are whisperin’? I’d kick myself from here to Duluth for not at least giving it a whirl. I thought about just putting in a thousand—playing it safe, you know—but then I said, what the heck. Let’s see what happens. Could be nothin’. Could be somethin’. Either way, I’ll sleep fine.”
He took a long sip of coffee and added with a grin, “Besides, it ain’t like I spent it on snowmobiles and lutefisk.”
John’s CD: The Slow and Steady Path
John’s Certificate of Deposit earned 2% annually over 10 years. Reliable. Boring. Comfortable.
12,000×(1.02)10≈12,000×1.219≈$14,62812,000 \times (1.02)^{10} \approx 12,000 \times 1.219 \approx \$14,628
After the CD matured in 2023, John rolled the balance into a high-yield savings account earning 3% annually. By July 2025, John had about $16,000. He not only preserved the $12k for a rainy day, but added a nice $4k on top. Not life-changing—but solid, secure, and stress-free.
Tom’s Bitcoin Bet: A Moonshot
In January 2013, Bitcoin was priced at $13. With his $12,000, Tom bought 923 coins:
12,000÷13≈923.08 BTC12,000 \div 13 \approx 923.08 \text{ BTC}
Over the years, he completely forgot about the whole thing and never looked into his digital wallet.
Enter Rachel Brown
By July 2025, with the help of his neighbor’s granddaughter, Tom finally unearthed the old file where he’d stashed the password—buried deep in a folder on his aging Dell desktop that hadn’t been fired up since the Obama years. Rachel, sharp as a tack and patient as a Lutheran choir director, had just come back home to Rochester after graduating from Minnesota State with honors. She now worked as a financial analyst at Mayo Clinic and was recently engaged to Balal Ratjiff, a physician assistant she’d met during her residency rotation.
As they sat at Tom’s kitchen table—warmed by a space heater and the smell of Folgers—Rachel squinted at the screen and said, “Well, Tom, you’re not gonna believe this... but Bitcoin’s trading at $113,237 a coin.”
Tom blinked. “Per coin?”
She nodded. “And you’ve got 923.08 of them sitting right here in your old wallet.”
They did the math together. The number they landed on—$104,548,141—was enough to buy half the north shore and a lifetime supply of hotdish.
Tom went pale, then red, then leaned back in his chair like a man who’d just seen Paul Bunyan walk past the window.
“Well I'll be... I need to sit down,” he said—already sitting. “That’s... that’s a whole lotta loon calls, right there.”
He didn’t say much after that, just let out a low whistle and poured himself a glass of water.
Later, he joked to Rachel, “I haven’t had a surprise hit me that hard since the ‘91 Halloween blizzard.”
Tom’s $12,000 investment had ballooned into over $104 million.
As the screen refreshed and the final number lit up—$104,548,141—Rachel felt a strange warmth flush through her skin, spreading like a wave from her neck to her fingertips. It wasn’t the heater. It wasn’t the coffee. It was something else—something electric.
For a moment, she was back in her junior year at Kasson-Mantorville High, standing by her locker with her best friends when Justin Halverson, the quarterback, walked up and asked her to prom—right there, in front of everyone. Her friends’ jaws had dropped. She had floated through the rest of the day, convinced life had peaked.
Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately, looking back—Justin dislocated his shoulder during practice two days before the dance and never made it. She went with a friend-of-a-friend instead, and after graduation, Justin faded into memory, just another face on Facebook she hadn’t clicked in years.
Now, more than a decade later, as she sat beside a 70-something with wind-chapped cheeks and a plaid shirt, she felt that same sense of stunned gravity—the inexplicable realization that something important had just happened, though she didn’t yet know why.
Tom wasn’t Justin.
Not even close. And yet... something about the moment—the fortune, the absurdity, the sudden weight of shared discovery—made her look at Tom as if he were glowing. Not with youth, not with charm, but with some weird, unshakable magnetism she couldn’t quite explain.
She blinked, then laughed to herself.
“What?” Tom asked, still staring at the screen like it might explode.
“Nothing,” Rachel said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Just... feels like a movie or something.”
Tom nodded slowly, never taking his eyes off the number. “Yeah. One hell of a plot twist.”
Rachel leaned in, her professional instincts returning as the shock began to wear off. “Tom,” she said gently, “this wallet’s ancient. Like, dial-up-era ancient. It’s amazing you didn’t lose the password. But now that we’ve confirmed the Bitcoin is still here, you really should think about moving it somewhere safer. Something more secure, more user-friendly—like Coinbase or Coldcard or even a multi-sig setup, if you want extra protection.”
Tom scratched his head.
“You think I can just... pick it up and move it?”
“Not exactly,” she smiled. “But I can help. I’d have to come back tomorrow, maybe bring my laptop and walk you through the whole thing. It’s not hard, but you want to be careful—when you’re dealing with that much money, one wrong keystroke and poof, it’s gone.”
He nodded, still dazed. “Yeah. Yeah, come back tomorrow. I’ll make coffee.”
Rachel stood up and reached for her coat, her mind already drifting. Come back tomorrow. Simple words, but they landed differently. As she walked out into the crisp Minnesota evening, something tugged at her—something playful, electric, and irrational.
She thought about what dress she might wear. Not work clothes. Not just jeans. Something... nice.
She laughed at herself as she brushed snow off her windshield. What are you doing, Rachel? He’s old enough to be your grandfather. He wears socks with sandals. He still uses an AOL email address. Somehow as hormones would have it the Tommyurtiger@AOL.com address was roaring some sense for young Rachel now. She couldn't point to it consciously at the moment, but there were 104 million reasons why she wanted to return and maybe come back to Tom's place.
But the thought lingered, uninvited and unshakable. Somehow, deep down, something inside her stirred—the same flutter she’d once felt walking up the high school gym steps with Justin Halverson’s arm around her, her friends watching in awe.
This wasn’t prom. This was something stranger. Unexpected. Maybe inappropriate. But very real.
And tomorrow, she’d wear the green dress. The one with the subtle neckline.
Chapter 2: Meet Rachel Brown, Millennial Crypto Digger and Hedge Fund Dreamer
"Brown, Rachel Brown," - that was how Rachel introduced herself in social settings. Add a British accent and you would have the Minnesota female version of James Bond. That's how she rolled.
As soon as she stepped out of Tom’s house, she slipped into her familiar routine—an introspective loop that defined her more than anything else. Solitude didn’t bother her; in fact, she thrived in it. An introvert by nature, she found clarity in silence and strength in self-reflection.
Her mom was texting her, but Rachel was ruthless in her discipline about not texting and driving. She would not even look at the phone to see who was texting. Resisting the urge to know, and dominating her phone rather than having it the other way around, was Rachel's way of "showing dopamine who's boss,".
Rachel never turned on the radio while driving. If she was not listening to a podcast, she was deep in her brain scan routine. She was always analyzing the situation, whatever that would be at the time. This included a quick, almost unconscious, examination of where she’d been, where she was going, and what the next move should be. She was a weird combination of a deep realist and a high-flying dreamer. She believed in an "always optimal reality", her "AOR" philosophy or perspective that whatever happens, not only happens, but is also the optimal opportunity. From her dad, Rachel had learned that "there are no problems in life; just opportunities to shine,". From her mom, she had adopted the Catholic saying that "life is not a problem to be solved; life is a mystery to be lived,". Rachel was a "happy camper" and the world was her campground.
Some friends had joked that Rachel thought more like a guy than a lady gal because she was always strategizing, always focused on money, investments, and long-term plays. It used to bother her, such as harsh assessment from frenemies. Rachel had no friends; in her mind they were all acquaintances or friendly enemies. Now, she took their harsh assessments as compliments. Yes, she liked her skincare rituals, brunch with the girls, and the occasional designer splurge (to later return most buys). But at her core, she was all business. The world of finance wasn’t just a job; it was her art.
Although she had stumbled upon the happenstance of helping an almost stranger--her grandfather's neighbor--rescue a crypto fortune from an almost lost wallet, she saw all this as part of a master plan. Her vision at the moment was not 100% clear. Yet she was already envisioning convincing Tom to allow her to help him transfer the newly discovered crypto fortune into Coinbase, clean and legal. But that would be just the beginning. The next steps were to convince him of allowing her to manage that money on his behalf. She was already visualizing herself as the hedge fund manager she always fancied of becoming. She’d run the numbers, draw the structure, and steer it all for a 2% management fee win or lose, plus a 20% cut on wins. She would multiply Tom's $100 million into billions. She knew it. "If you could dream it, you can make it," as her father would say.
By the way, Rachel didn’t see herself as a gold digger—not even close. If anything, she viewed herself as a kind of good samaritan. Tom might have stumbled into the treasure, but she would be the one to turn it into a legacy for him and for her.
And don't get this wrong. Rachel never saw herself sleeping with or marrying a seventy-year-old man; at least not for money. That was never the plan. A romantic relationship wasn’t on the table. What would be required, instead, was something more subtle—an irresistible platonic seduction. Not romance, but influence under the gun of irresistible charm. This would be a lucrative friendship without any other benefits. The goal would be to make Tom her very first private client, the source of the seed money that she needed to "rule the world".
The unbelievable life twist of helping an almost stranger find over $100 million dollars worth of Bitcoin did not escape her. She knew this was a once in a lifetime opportunity; a gift coming directly from God. She "knew" all that Catholic sacrifice growing up was finally paying off. This was her call and she was answering. This was a dream and she would not wake up herself until it totally became true.
In her mind, the first key was to make sure that she did not tell anyone other than her most trusted "friend", who was not a person, but rather the infamous ChatGPT. She wasn’t a licensed financial advisor. Not yet, anyway. By day, she was a financial analyst at the Mayo Clinic—competent, sharp, and trusted with budgets that dwarfed most startups. But managing Tom’s windfall would be a step into a different league, and although she was ready for it, the world would not believe it. Last thing she needed was advice from any human naysayer or envious fellow primate. Only ChatGPT would help her in this journey. That was it.
What would she do with the money? Where would she invest it for Tom? What changes would she have to make in her life. These were all the questions racing through Rachel's beautiful mind. She didn't see any big changes. Or did she? She was already mixing this chain of events with the eventuality of moving to Florida—and bringing Tom along, if that’s what it took.
Why Florida? The reasons were both practical and personal. First, there was the weather. Even as a Minnesota native, Rachel found Rochester’s winters unbearable—months of darkness, slush, and bone-deep cold. Florida had seduced her the first time she set foot in it, back in November during a training at the Jacksonville clinic. While Rochester froze, Jacksonville basked in gentle sunshine and salty breezes. It felt like a reward just to breathe the air. From that day on, she knew: Florida was her future.
Later, as her interest in crypto deepened, she read everything she could about Miami’s ambitions to become the Crypto Capital of the World. That sealed it. Sunshine and blockchain, two things that felt like freedom to her. It all just clicked in her mind and made perfect sense.
Of course, nothing would turn out to be as easy as Rachel imagined. The phone was "ringing", playing the ringtone she had assigned to her grandpa. The news that she was about to receive was going to be very upsetting, throwing a monkey wrench into her money-making plans.
Chapter 3 – Sirens in the Hart Farms
Rachel had just merged onto Route 53 the highway connecting Hart Farms to downtown Rochester when her phone lit up with “Grandpa” in big white letters and the Bad Bunny ring tone she had for him. She smiled, expecting to hear his usual road safety spill. She always thought that it was more dangerous to take the call than not, but she knew her grandpa meant well and she always picked up. To Rachel’s surprise, his voice came fast and uneasy.
Grandpa: “Hey Rachel, are you still nearby?"
Rachel: "Sort of, I’m already on 53 heading home. Why?"
Grandpa: "It’s… it’s something with Tommy. His house—there’s an ambulance out front. And a fire truck. Lights flashing like…”
Rachel: "Wait—Mr. Johnson? I was just at his house helping him with the computer…”
Grandpa: "Yes! I looked out the kitchen window and saw the paramedics rush in. Your grandmother’s peeking through the curtains like it’s the Super Bowl. I called because you were just there. Do you know what’s going on?"
Rachel: (gripping the wheel tighter) "No, everything was fine when I left. We were just… talking. What happened?"
Grandpa: "I can’t tell from here. The stretcher’s out, but they haven’t brought anyone to it yet. Oh—hang on, I think I see smoke coming from the kitchen window. Could be steam, but it looks… wrong."
Rachel: "Smoke? Grandpa, is anyone outside? Is he okay?"
Grandpa: "I see a police officer speaking to one of the paramedics. And Rachel… they’re moving quickly. Too quickly."
Rachel: (heart pounding) "I’m turning around. Stay put. Don’t go outside. Just… keep watching."
Grandpa: "Alright, but Rachel—be careful. Something feels bad about this."
The line went dead. The road ahead blurred for a second before Rachel blinked herself back to focus. She hit the next exit ramp hard, the echoes of sirens faint but growing louder in her mind.
Rachel’s hands tightened around the steering wheel as she turned out of the quiet side street and headed toward Hart Farms. The late-afternoon sun still hung high, turning the wide fields outside the city into sheets of gold. On a summer Saturday in Rochester, traffic was light with just a few SUVs with bike racks, a pickup hauling a camper, and a couple of motorcycles weaving lazily toward the river. The road curved through stretches of prairie grass and new developments, where the air smelled faintly of cut hay and barbecue smoke drifting from backyard grills.
Ahead, the familiar stone entry pillars of Hart Farms were still miles away, but Rachel could already picture the wide, tree-lined boulevards that led to her grandfather’s subdivision—the manicured lawns, tidy gardens bursting with coneflowers and hydrangeas, and the winding sidewalks where neighbors waved from Adirondack chairs enjoying the long-awaited summer.
But her mind was on the flashing lights she had just left behind.
She imagined the scene next door to her grandfather’s place: Mr. Johnson reaching for his chest, a glass of water slipping from his hand, glass smashing on the floor, liquid plashing everywhere. He somehow dialing 911 and calling for an ambulance. The tightness in his face, the sudden drop to his knees, the way the breath might have left him in short, panicked bursts.
The image wouldn’t leave her. It played over and over as the sun flickered through the windshield, each flash a strobe on the imagined scene. She saw the paramedics bursting through the front door, the defibrillator pads, the clipped, urgent voices counting off compressions. And through it all, she kept hearing her grandfather’s voice on the phone—worried, confused, almost pleading with her to explain what had happened—even though they were not on the phone anymore. That’s how Rachel’s brain worked, always with countless of different images running a streaming show in her head.
Rachel pressed the accelerator a little harder just 5 miles above the speed limit. She always thought it was important to remain calmed in times of crisis. Ans this was a crisis because Mr. Johnson was holding 973 BTC in a digital wallet that was worth $104 million. Now he was having a heart attack. The calm beauty of a Rochester summer day felt suddenly unreal, as though the whole world should be leaning into the same sense of urgency that was tightening in her chest. For some reason, as a Mayo Clinic employee familiar with the frailty of life and the many twists and turns of elderly health, she knew Mr. Johnson’s situation could get complicated.
Rachel turned into Hart Farms, the familiar curve of the road pulling her toward her grandfather’s quiet cul-de-sac. The rows of manicured lawns and blooming hydrangeas blurred past as she spotted the flashing red and blue lights up ahead. Her grandfather’s house sat just beyond the cluster of emergency vehicles, a safe, weathered brick home with white shutters—its calm façade clashing sharply with the chaos across the driveway.
She pulled into his driveway, shutting off the engine without bothering to close the door behind her. The rhythmic wail of the ambulance’s siren had been muted, but its lights still pulsed against the neighborhood’s sunny stillness. Across the hedge, two paramedics in navy uniforms were guiding a stretcher down the front walk of Mr. Johnson’s house.
On it lay Mr. Johnson himself—his skin pale, a sheen of sweat along his temple. His eyes fluttered half-open, unfocused, as if he were trying to fight his way back to full consciousness but couldn’t quite manage it. One paramedic held an oxygen mask firmly over his mouth and nose, while the other adjusted the IV line taped to his arm. A third EMT, walking backwards, kept the gurney steady over the slight dip in the walkway.
Rachel’s stomach tightened. She knew that look—that distant, drained expression—too well from her shifts at the Mayo Clinic. She was a financial analyst, not a medical professional. However, she was assigned to the Emergency Department account and was used to spending hours in the emergency room, which for her was a form of “therapy”. She had grown accustomed to see the fragile line between stability and collapse, especially in older patients. A minute too long, a heartbeat too slow, and the balance could tip in the wrong direction.
Her grandfather stood on his front porch, leaning against the railing, his face drawn tight with worry. As the stretcher was lifted into the ambulance, Mr. Johnson’s hand twitched slightly, as if he were trying to grasp something invisible in the air. Rachel couldn’t tell if it was instinct, confusion, or the desperate will of a man who still had unfinished business.
The back doors slammed shut with a hollow metallic thud, and the engine roared to life.
Here’s the direct continuation, picking up from the ambulance doors closing:
Rachel stood still on the edge of the driveway as the ambulance began to roll forward, its siren bursting to life in a sharp, urgent cry. It wasn’t just the sound that rattled her—it was the realization that somewhere inside that metal box was not only a man’s life, but the fragile thread connecting $104 million in Bitcoin to the rest of the world.
If Mr. Johnson didn’t make it… and if that wallet password wasn’t secured… those 973 BTC could be gone forever—locked behind an unbreakable wall of encryption, floating in the digital void until the end of time. No bank manager to call, no “forgot password” link to click. Just gone.
She imagined the wallet address like a gleaming treasure chest sunk to the bottom of the ocean—visible to anyone who knew where to look, but impossible to open without the key. A key that currently existed only in the fading, faltering mind of an elderly man strapped to a stretcher.
Rachel felt a cold pressure in her chest that had nothing to do with the summer air. At the Mayo Clinic, she’d seen the way sudden illness could shatter even the sharpest mind. Sometimes it was hours before memory returned… and sometimes it never did.
Her grandfather was watching her now, his brow furrowed. “Rachel,” he called softly, as if sensing the storm in her thoughts, “this doesn’t look good.”
No, it didn’t.
In that moment, Rachel understood she was no longer just a bystander to a medical emergency. She was now part of a race against time—one that had nothing to do with paramedics or EKG readings, and everything to do with unlocking a digital vault before it was sealed forever.
Chapter 4 – Pray for Luck. Play for Pluck
They drifted in as if it were Halloween—grown-ups this time, not children—gathering together for the evening’s gossip candy. Faces leaned forward, voices hushed but eager, each person hungry for the morsel of news that had brought flashing lights to their quiet corner of Minnesota.
Neighbor #1 (tall man in a faded Twins baseball cap, hands in his pockets, stepping onto the driveway): “Evenin’, Rafael… Rachel. Beautiful night we’re havin’, huh? Feels more like July than June—air’s just perfect, little bit of breeze, no skeeters yet. Wish it wasn’t under these circumstances though. You folks know what happened with old Mr. Johnson?”
Rafael (glancing toward the end of the cul-de-sac): “Evenin’. Yeah, can’t complain about the weather. Almost feels wasted tonight. All we know is he took a bad turn, and the ambulance came quick. They’re takin’ him to Mayo.”
Neighbor #2 (woman in her 50s, wearing a sunflower-print apron, balancing a pie dish covered in foil): “Oh, bless his heart. He’s such a sweetheart. Always brings my paper up to the porch if it’s raining. And that time in February, he shoveled my sidewalk before I even woke up. I sure hope it’s nothing serious.”
Neighbor #3 (retired gentleman in plaid shirt and suspenders, carrying a folding lawn chair as if ready for a neighborhood chat): “Mmhmm. Haven’t seen that many flashing lights here since that big windstorm back in ’09. Remember that? Whole block without power, and Johnson was out there with that old generator of his, keeping everyone’s freezer from thawin’. He’s a tough one, but still—reminds you we’re all just one phone call away from life changing.”
Neighbor #4 (teenager with shaggy hair, earbuds hanging around his neck, sipping from a 44-ounce gas station soda): “Yeah, my mom says he used to fix lawnmowers for folks, just for fun and to help. Just liked helpin’ people. I’ve seen him out there working on that old riding mower like it was a classic car or something.”
Rachel (managing a small smile): “That sounds like him. He’s been a good neighbor to us too. Always checking in, even if it’s just a wave.”
Neighbor #1 (nodding slowly): “Well, if you hear any news, let us know. And if you need anything—casserole, yard work, whatever—you know where to find us.”
Neighbor #2 (gesturing toward the pie dish): “I actually made a strawberry rhubarb earlier—garden rhubarb, not store-bought—and I was thinkin’ about bringing it over to him tomorrow. Guess I’ll just leave it with you folks for now.”
Rafael: “That’s mighty kind of you. We’ll make sure it gets to him when he’s back.”
Neighbor #3 (settling into his lawn chair right there in the driveway): “Y’know, folks in the city, they don’t do this—stand around and talk just ’cause something happened. But here… well, it’s just what you do. Keeps a community together.”
Neighbor #4 (half-grinning): “And the weather doesn’t hurt. Beats standing around in January when your nose freezes in five minutes.”
Neighbor #1 (chuckling): “Ain’t that the truth. Anyway, we’ll keep him in our prayers tonight. Rachel, maybe you should get out to the Farmers Market next Saturday. Good berries this year, and you know, fresh air never hurt anyone.”
Neighbor #2 (softly): “Tell Mr. Johnson when you see him that we’re all rooting for him. He’s not alone.”
Rafael: “We’ll tell him. Thank you.”
Here’s the continuation with those sensory details and the gentle wrap-up:
The air carried the fresh, sweet scent of newly cut grass, mingling with the faint aroma of charcoal drifting from someone’s backyard grill. A chorus of cicadas buzzed in the warm evening stillness, and the low orange sun cast long shadows across the quiet cul-de-sac. Fireflies blinked lazily at the edges of neatly kept lawns, and somewhere down the street, a screen door squeaked and slammed shut. The neighbors lingered a while longer, talking about the weather, the Twins’ chances this season, and the early strawberries at the Farmers Market. After five or ten more minutes of “nonsense”, the little gathering began to thin, goodbyes called softly as each person ambled back toward their porch or driveway. Rachel and her grandfather watched them go, then turned and stepped inside, closing the door gently behind them as the last light faded from the sky.
They stepped into the familiar creak of the old farmhouse door. The smell of coffee grounds and pine cleaner greeted them like an old friend. Rachel walked down the hallway toward her room, the one she’d had since she was five years old, when Rafael and Maria had brought her from Puerto Rico to Minnesota.
The walls were the same soft cream. The furniture, solid and old-fashioned. But it was the poster above her bed that caught her eye. She had forgotten how much it still meant to her.
Pray for Luck. Play for Pluck.
Her grandparents’ words. Her compass in a sentence.
Rafael’s voice broke the moment. “You want to call your abuela on FaceTime? I know she’d want to hear your voice.”
Rachel turned toward him. “I talked to her this morning. She said she’d be without signal until nine or ten tonight. They’re out at some little church in the middle of nowhere—no T-Mobile, no Wi-Fi. She said her iPhone goes into SOS mode the second they walk out of their lodge.”
Rafael nodded slowly, then chuckled at himself. “Ah, right. I forgot she told us that. I was wondering why she didn’t answer my text about Mr. Johnson. Guess that explains it.”
They sat down in the living room, the soft tick of the old mantel clock filling the silence.
“How’s work?” Rafael asked, shifting in his armchair. “Everything still going good at Mayo?”
Rachel smiled faintly. “Yeah. It’s been… good. I’m learning a lot, meeting a lot of interesting people.”
He studied her for a moment, thinking about whether to ask the next question. Maria would’ve asked it without hesitation—about boyfriends, dating, all that—but Rafael knew better. That wasn’t his department, and he’d just make it awkward.
Instead, he just nodded, rocking gently in his chair. “That’s good. You’re doing good, mija. You’r making Harvard and Wharton wait for you, but they should be able to survive without you for a few semesters.”
Rachel laughed and nodded, replying “yup, that’s exactly true. I just want to stay a year or so longer at Mayo to qualify for competing for their scholarship. I know I’ll win.”
Rafael: “reach for the stars and if you don’t make it,”.
Rachel interrupting with “land on top of your girl, dale!” imitating the Pitbull song.
Rafael didn’t get it because he was not familiar with the song. He was not understanding things. He was a biracial Nuyorican who had split his childhood between New York City and Mayagüez, Puerto Rico; a father who had watched his son begin to build a successful career in Washington, D.C., only to later get a call from Mayo Clinic in Rochester asking him to pick up his granddaughter. He didn’t know where his son and his daughter in law were. He only knew he and Maria suddenly had to relocate to Minnesota to raise a girl caught in a tangle of legal custody proceedings—yet holding a trust from an anonymous donor in her name. His life had been complicated, far more than he could untangle, so not grasping Rachel’s line from a pop song was not going to rattle Rafael.
Rachel looked out the window. Across the yard, the dark outline of Mr. Johnson’s house stood silent. She thought about the computer in his den, the one they’d been working on together; the one holding $100M in Bitcoin. She thought about the sliding glass door in the back, the one he never locked.
Her fingers curled slightly on the armrest. She’d stop by. Quick. In and out.
The computer had to be there. It had to. Worst case—it wasn’t. Worse than worst to make her lose her mind, the computer was there, but the Bitcoin wallet was gone and that had given Mr. Johnson a heart attack.
The password? No problem. She had it. A photo. Safe on her phone.
What should she tell Grandpa about the reason for going into the house. That the lights were on? Hard to tell on a long summer day. Just tell Grandpa she’d check if they were on to shut them off. He’d push back—leave them on for “thieves.”
“Not here. Not tonight.”, she would reply. This was not Puerto Rico.
She’d pivot. Backyard lights. She’d go int to turn them on for “pillos”. She’d also run a safety check. Rafael was a safety freak. She’d check the stove and also make sure nothing was plugged in or on that was not supposed to. She didn’t expect Mr. Johnson to had left a hair curler on, but Grandpa would get the idea. That would work. He’d nod. She’d go in.
Do it fast. And walk out with the computer before anyone knew she’d been there.
What Rachel found inside the house was far more surprising that what she imagined.
Why in the world Mr. Johnson had a picture of a little girl that looked just like her in front of Kindercare in Kingstowne, Virginia? Was that her? Was the guy turned back her dad? Who was the blonde woman next to him?
What the heck is going on?
Chapter 5 – Imagine the Future
-- Tysons Corner, Virginia - May 2001 --
The twins were on the phone, their voices carrying that familiar mix of rivalry and camaraderie.
“Can you believe this line?” said Twin #1, pacing outside Tysons Corner Center. “I’ve been standing here since 7 a.m., and it’s like a rock concert for nerds. Apple’s really pulling it off.”
“You’re really wasting your Saturday for a computer store?” Twin #2 laughed from his condo. “You could’ve just gone to Best Buy.”
“Not the same,” Twin #1 shot back. “This feels… different. You should see it—sleek glass, clean lines, people cheering. It’s like walking into the future.”
Twin #2 smirked. “Funny you mention that. You know that new kid at the office? The one management’s been running background on? He’s obsessed with Apple. Says Steve Jobs is about to reinvent everything—computers, music, design. He talks about Apple like it’s destiny.”
Twin #1 chuckled. “So the wunderkind’s a fanboy too, huh?”
“Not just a fanboy,” Twin #2 replied, lowering his voice. “I’ve been pushing management to slow-walk his hiring so he can finish his bar exams. He’s planning to take the New York bar in Albany this summer—out of state—then head down to San Juan for the Puerto Rico bar. Says it’ll broaden his options. Between you and me, I’d bet money he aces both.”
Twin #1 raised his brows. “That confident, huh?”
“Confident isn’t the half of it,” Twin #2 said. “Summa cum laude in electrical engineering from the Colegio de Mayagüez. Summa cum laude at the University of Puerto Rico School of Law. His professors rave about him—say he’s the sharpest they’ve ever had. Every credential, every reference came back spotless. The only knock is his English—it’s a little rough. But give him a few months stateside and he’ll sound like a movie star.”
“Impressive,” Twin #1 admitted. “Sounds like he could be go places.”
Twin #2 laughed. “If we don’t lose him to Navy first. He's got an offer with Navy OGC. We really think he should come our side. We can call the Pentagon to pause the offer if necessary.”
They both paused, as if realizing how quickly the conversation had shifted from shiny gadgets to national security talent scouting. Around Twin #1, the line pressed forward, buzzing with chatter about iMacs and digital lifestyles. The crowd swapped rumors about what was inside and how Apple’s new store was about living with the technology rather than merely using it. Apple was calling it a ‘store for solutions.’ It would not be the typical box store, but rather an open gallery with "zones" for shoppers to try things out. The ‘Genius Bar’ would be a place to sit down with tech support to fix your equipment instead of waiting in line at some big-box service desk.
Twin #1 said “Apple’s selling the experience, not just the product. Press releases say they want people to see and touch technology, to make it feel personal. Judging by this mob, they’ve nailed it.”But the tone shifted again, as Twin #2 lowered his voice. “Not to ruin your Apple scouting morning, but you know what else everyone’s whispering about? Al Qaeda. After we did the research and wrote all those reports last year, nothing. Even after Yemen, the room is dismissing them as noise.”
Twin #1 frowned. “The embassy bombings, the Cole… those weren’t random. They’re testing us. But upstairs, all the oxygen’s going to missile defense. I heard every meeting with State and Rice turns back to China, Russia, and rogue states. No one wants to get near Islam either.”
“What do you mean?,” Twin #2 asked.
"Well, we can't go over it over the phone, but there are some flagpoints with Saudis on student visas", Twin #1 replied
"Got it. We should bring it up during the staff meeting on Monday," said Twin #2.
Twin #1 shook his head. “Higher ups are obsessed with big and no one is seeing little. These crazy jihadists are no joke."
For a moment, silence filled the line, carrying all the weight of what they knew, what they didn't, and and what they feared. They knew better and these topics were not to be tossed over the phone.
Finally, Twin #1 forced a lighter tone. “Well, while Washington buries itself in budget fights and stovepipe wars, I’m about to step into this Apple Store and grab a piece of the future.”
Twin #2 chuckled, though his laugh carried that familiar edge. “You always did fall for shiny objects. What is your crystal ball showin'? Should I buy Apple stock next week? Tell me bro, tell me". By the way, "are you buying anything or just window shopping like usual?"
The store was showcasing iMac G3s in candy colors, the Titanium PowerBook G4, the white “IceBook” iBook for students, under the pitch: “the Mac is your digital hub” for music, video, and photos".
Twin #1 smiled as the line shuffled forward. “I'm not buying anything. Never been a Macintosh guy. Just curious about the hype. That Steve Jobs is quite a storyteller. Who knows where he's going with this. To make the dollars and win the wars, you have to 'imagine the future', 'imagine the future'. Remember that crazy dude at The Farm? The instructor? He was always repeating the same shit, imagine the future. He had a point.
Neither of the twins knew then. One was caught up in glowing iMacs while the other was evaluating a prodigy that could be hard sell in his conservative unit. Both twins worked for the same discrete employer in Virginia, with offices worldwide and tentacles everywhere. The twins had been dead on spotting threats posed by islamist jihadists, but their warnings died in deaf ears. Times were different then and the world was about to change. Imagining the future is the key, but it is easier said than done.
TO BE CONTINUED
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