With Rachelle in the back of the Expedition not having her own exit door, one of us men in the middle would have to move to let her out. I was on the side away from the Interstate traffic, so I got out and tilted my seat forward so our dripping wet companion could maneuver herself out of the vehicle. I could see voluminous amounts of suds and foam were still emerging from her pants as she climbed out. She left a trail as she dashed to the back of the vehicle to open the hatch door back there and get a pair of dry pants out of her luggage.

I called out to her once a passing semi-truck whizzed past so that I thought she could hear me again, “I’ll get back in and Mont and I won’t look while you change.”

“Thanks,” I heard her call back as she pulled out new pants.

Shielding herself from the view of Interstate travelers as best she could, using a Ford Expedition for cover, our computer IT specialist changed into a dry version of the same clothes she’d had on before. Muffled through the windows, I heard what I assumed was the same small, feminine voice that had sneezed saying, “Sorry, Boss” quickly answered by Rachelle’s voice sharply hissing “Not now. Later.” in response. Then I heard a knocking on my window behind my head letting me know to turn around and let Rachelle back in.

Everyone seemed to take this all in stride, so I took my cue to not make a big deal out of it and to not ask any questions, but to just be cool with it as they were. Once Liz had an opening to leave the shoulder and get us back rolling along the Interstate, she asked, “How is Spitfire these days?”

“Oh, she’s doing ok. Apparently she’s doing laundry today,” answered Rachelle nervously.

“I see.” Liz made brief eye contact with me in her rearview mirror. “Carl, you’re the only one who doesn’t know, so this is as good a time as any to mention it. Rachelle has a symbiotic organism bonded to her. She lives in an extradimensional space accessed by Rachelle’s clothing pockets. That’s why Rachelle’s wardrobe is very pocket-themed. Spitfire is Rachelle’s personal assistant, but I imagine she’s cleaning up a mess right now, so we’ll introduce you to her later..”

“Great,” I replied, thinking once again how this experience had been going on far too long to be a dream. I had memories of days and nights and days of this road trip, so if this was a dream, I had to be in a coma.

When we got to Flagstaff and met the last member of Field Team 42, Mitchell Windsinger, I learned that Mitchell could see and I learned what that meant. Mitch had inherited sight from his Native American grandfather. He wasn’t a mage, like Jonie. He couldn’t channel magic around him. Instead he could perceive it in ways that most other people could not. In addition to his work with Control, he helped people for free as a public service who were having problems with spirits. He regaled us with the story of his latest case.

“I helped a young woman who needed to move to the East Coast to take advantage of an incredible job offer that was the perfect move to catapult her career. Her problem was that she couldn’t sell her house in Flagstaff. Every time that she would try to show the house to interested buyers, the master bedroom closet door would open and slam on its own and the closet light would go crazy turning on and off and on and off. As you can imagine, this killed any interest the would-be buyers had and they all withdrew their offers. The closet was doing that all the time, not just in front of respective buyers. Sometimes, it would go on all night. The woman had to sleep in another room because the banging was so loud.

“When she brought me in, I could see her dad there next to the closet. I felt like he was her dad, anyway, so I confirmed it by asking whether he was still alive, and no he wasn’t. I asked what he had looked like, and she showed me pictures on her phone and it was him.”

Mitch paused for effect and I could tell he enjoyed how silent and rapt we all were  for a moment before he continued.

“Her dad didn’t say anything. Spirits usually don’t in my experience, but he kept pointing at the closet floor, pleadingly, insistently, urgently. The woman had the floorboards pulled out of the closet and we found tons of cash, stock and bond certificates, and other family treasures and heirlooms. Apparently, her dad didn’t want her selling the family home and leaving all that behind, buried underground on property sold to someone else, with no one even knowing it was there.”

I said, “That’s got to be very gratifying to be able to help people like that.”

Mitch smiled, “Sometimes, with those kinds of cases, it is. Sometimes, my gift sucks. I’ll tell you some of my grandfather's stories sometime.”

With the addition of Mitch to our team, we were a complete unit: a shaman with sight (Mitch), a mage (Jonie), a computer nerd with a strange extradimensional assistant (Rachelle), a warrior with a military and police background (Mont), a representative of management (Liz), and me. Once again, I was doomed to be the Renaissance Man, capable of many things, but not really knowing how I fit in or what my place really was.

I felt good about these people, though. I looked forward with excitement to be on a mission together with them, to face whatever challenges we would find in Dust Bowl, Arizona, which was now our next stop.