Papa hadn’t given any details. He’d just said that Marjorie had disappeared and they needed Annie’s help

July 1964

“It’s not here,” Marjorie said, her voice laced with hysteria as she searched fruitlessly through her bag. “That Pete! That thief! When he went in for drinks, he pushed my bag away. He must have taken the money while we were all singing!”

“Ma’am, that’s four dollars you owe us,” the gas jockey said stolidly, ignoring Marjorie’s laments.

“Wait here.” Mama Mumu pulled out the enormous duffel bag she’d placed into the trunk, rifled through it, laboriously counted out four dollars in coins from a rumpled brown bag, and handed it to the boy.

“Mama, what will we do?” Marjorie wailed. “We’ve got at least another fifteen, maybe twenty hours to get to San Francisco. And we have no money to get there!”

Mama Mumu’s voice stayed calm. “Don’t sweat it, honey. I don’t like pieces of paper, but I’ve got my coin stash. That will pay for the gas.”

“But where will we sleep if we can’t stay in a motel?”

Mama Mumu laughed. “G-d’s got plenty of room, child.”

“You mean....”

“We’ll head to the foothills, find us a quiet spot, and have a peaceful beddy-bye.”

“Outside? On the ground?” Marjorie shivered.

“Not exactly, babe.” And from the depths of the duffel bag she pulled out a pile of brightly colored blankets and what seemed an endless supply of Lay’s potato chips.

Marjorie felt an unlikely sense of calm envelop her. She’d had a short stint in the Girl Scouts when she was nine, which had ended when she’d refused to wear the uniform and had eaten a whole box of the cookies she was supposed to sell, but she did remember one of their mottos: Be Prepared.

Maybe Mama Mumu had been a Girl Scout. Yesterday.

The thought brought on a fit of giggles, and, unexpectedly cheerful once again, she helped Mama repack the duffel bag, slammed the trunk shut, and headed for the hills.