Trooping through customs sent my heart rate sky-high. It wasn’t like home. The police had guns here! I’d never seen a gun in real life before. Even without stepping outside I could tell I was abroad – a different smell in the air, dry and hot. The loos were weird, with big wide bowls and low doors. The border agent gave me a bored look and asked some questions about my visa and job plans. I answered nervously, even though what I was saying was true. Would they arrest me? Send me home? Instead he said, ‘Welcome to the US,’ and waved me through. I waited for my case, a huge pink one Jenna had found in the market, worried it wouldn’t turn up, but it did, and I lugged it out. Tiredness made me woolly – it was 3 a.m. back home. Was there anyone? To my relief, I saw a Latino man holding up a sign that said Casey Adams. I came to a halt in front of him. ‘Hi! That’s me. Are you Mr Safran – David?’ How dumb I was. I’d soon learn that people like David didn’t drive you from the airport themselves.

He gave me a look. ‘José. Driver, gardener.’

‘Oh – uh, OK. Gracias.’ I’d learned some Spanish on a trip to Magaluf with college friends, but he didn’t respond. He took my case from me and I started to worry I’d need to tip him. We went outside – a brief, ferocious blast of petrolly heat – and into the car, a big people-carrier that was so cold inside I saw goosebumps rising on my arms.

‘Water in back of seat,’ he said, starting the engine.

‘Thank you.’ Thirsty, I drank from the bottle. It tasted of plastic, but I was so dehydrated I was grateful anyway. I looked out through the tinted glass for my first glimpse of LA. It seemed to be all cars and flyovers and, in the smoggy distance, high-rise blocks. No palm trees. No sea view. Tiredness overwhelmed me and I sank back against the chill leather, closing my eyes.

‘Casey? Are you asleep?’

I sat up in bed, for a second unsure of where I was, where in the world, where in time, all of it. A woman stood over me, wearing tight Lycra gym clothes, holding a baby in her arms. Abby and Carson. My boss and one of the children I was supposed to take care of.

‘Oh – sorry. Jet lag.’ I looked at the travel clock on my bedside table; it was four o’clock in the afternoon. The middle of the night back home. The air in the room was chill and stale, although I knew it would be scorching outside.