Douglas storms down the hall, angry at the tangle of Bureaucracy that has brought him here, yet again, and sent him home with nothing to show for it. He reaches the entrance lobby, and finds a woman arguing with the security guard on duty. She is red in the face, and shouting at the uniformed guard, who simply sits with his arms folded for her to finish her rant.

“I don’t believe this!” She shouts, while the guard shakes his head, no. She spins around and begins to march out of the building, but almost runs right into Douglas. Nostrils flaring, she looks like she’s about to yell at him, but she catches herself, sets her jaw, and stomps past him, and out the door. Douglas exits behind her, and watches her jump into a black car and drive away. He shrugs, and heads for home.

Home is a cramped, but affordable apartment on the north side of town. Douglas climbs the 5 flights of stairs up to his floor, walks along the warped, wooden hallway to his door, unlocks it, and steps inside. He flicks the light on as he shuts and bolts the door, and tosses the folder full of paperwork onto the table next to the door. It smacks heavily on the table, and then tips over the edge, and onto the floor, spilling some of the papers out across the worn, beige, threadbare carpet. Douglas sighs, and starts to bend down to pick them up, but decides that it’s just not worth it, and slinks into his kitchen to find some supper. He grabs some food out of the icebox, and prepares a sandwich at the counter next to the sink. Then he flops down in a wooden chair at his small dining table, and chews thoughtfully on his sandwich.

Finished with his meal, Douglas straightens up the kitchen and then migrates over to his sitting room, and flops down in a large, dusty, stuffed armchair. He flips the switch on the Fessenden Device, on the table next to the chair, and a dingy yellow light lights up the front of the device, while a faint voice gradually grows louder.

“…further information is needed. In other news, the city is preparing to begin development on the North Shore for a new dock and cargo area, which will be connected to the main rail line. Development is estimated to cost a little less than $50,000. The police are investigating the apparently accidental death of a Francis Williams, whose automobile drove off the road and into a 5 foot-deep ditch, killing him on impact. There are no other injuries known at this time. Police believe the driver swerved to avoid an animal in the road. His family has been notified, but they had no comment for the press at this time. Mr Williams was 38.”

Douglas sits rigid in his seat. Francis Williams, aka Frank, was the man he has spoken to yesterday regarding the zoning maps near his father’s property… Could it be a coincidence that he’s dead now, only a few hours since Douglas had mentioned his name to Mr Wright? Surely this was another Francis Williams… Douglas looks at the clock on his wall: 4:36 pm, the Zoning Department was open until 5. He grabs the phone receiver off the cradle, and dials “Zero”.

“May I please be directed to the City Zoning Department. Thank you.”

A moment of silence, and then the far-away ring… once, twice, thrice…

“Zoning Department, how may I direct your call?”

“Yes, may I please speak with Frank Williams?”

“I’m sorry sir, Mr. Williams is no longer with us…”

“Well, do you know when he will return?”

“Sir, I don’t think you understand me… Mr Williams is deceased. There was a car accident this afternoon..”

“Oh, I’m sorry… um… thanks.”

Douglas lets the phone drop back onto the receiver, but he stares, unseeing out the window. Something is seriously wrong… all the confusion, the red tape, and now this… someone is definitely, deliberately, trying to prevent him from acquiring his father’s possessions… Douglas turns and rapidly heads for the door. He snatches his hat and coat from the hook on the wall, and then speeds out into the hallway, slamming the door behind him.