Douglas’s father was always away while he was growing up – constantly off to some meeting in another city, or across the ocean for important research. The brief moments that he was home were his fondest memories. Although he was always away on business, Douglas and his mother never seemed to see any benefit from his work. They lived in a tiny, two bedroom apartment, and his mother worked full time at a nearby grocer in order to pay the bills. As a child, Douglas never gave these things much thought, it was simply the way the world worked. His mother would be at work most of the time, but be home in time for dinner, and his father would be away for months at a time, sometimes home for holidays… but not always. Douglas reached his teenage years, and began to sense the wrongness of his family, but could not put words to it. He tried to ask his mother why they were so poor when his father was busy working all the time, but anytime he came close to the subject, his mother would come to tears, so he gave up. Still, his father would return home every few months, sometimes with a gift for Douglas, sometimes not, and sometimes spending time bonding with his son before having to rush away again. He eventually learned that his father did send money home from time to time, but it was irregular amounts, and at irregular intervals, so his mother could never count on it to pay for things they needed. When Douglas was 17, his mother died from the influenza outbreak that swept the city. The city determined him old enough to no longer need supervision, and allowed him to live on his own. They were unable to locate his father, and his father did not attend his mother’s funeral. Douglas began to feel resentment for his father boil up inside him. He got a job at a nearby office as a clerk, which mostly meant he spent lots of time filing, sorting, and refiling paperwork. After 2 years, he was able to sell most of the old things in his apartment, and move to a slightly larger apartment closer to work. A year after that, and he received a telegram from his father.

Son! I am finally able to return home after these many years abroad! There is so very much that I wish to tell you. I am retiring and building a house just outside the city. It is my wish that you should meet with me upon my arrival, and stay with me at our new house! Please await my next message to you, which will include a time and location for our reunion!

Douglas was initially overjoyed with this message, but then a cyclone of emotions tore through him – why didn’t his father come to his mother’s funeral? did he not know she was dead at the time? why was he just now contacting him after so many years? 6 months went by, and there was no further message from his father. He had begun to feel more anger and resentment… but then one morning, a new telegram arrived, which simply said:

Son, June 8th, 11:00 A.M. Go to the Bus Station at Fifth and Marshall, a car will pick you up and bring you here. Looking forward to reunion. -Your father.

The tone of this letter worried Douglas – it was very much different from the last one – and terse enough to almost feel cold, and callous. Douglas fretted, unsure if he should show up at the location mentioned, but eventually allowed himself to give his father the benefit of the doubt. He would see him, and try to find out what he had to say before judging him any further. A week later, he was standing at the bus stop at Fifth and Marshall (it was nothing more than a post in the sidewalk that said: “BUS”, and not so much a station, as was mentioned in the telegram). It was cloudy, and threatened to rain shortly, but Douglas endured. He arrived early, just in case, but by 11:30 no one had stopped or even looked in his direction. He had to wave on 3 different buses who thought he was a potential passenger. At 12:30, he was more than a little hungry, and decided that if no one showed by 1:00, he would walk down the street and get a sandwich. Finally, at 12:40, a black car pulled up, and a tall, well-dressed man wearing a suit, and hat stepped out of the drivers seat, and asked, “Mr. Wensley?” Douglas nodded, and the driver walked around the car, opened the rear passenger-side door, and gestured for him to enter. The interior of the car was very dark, and very clean. Douglas sat down, and buckled himself in while the driver shut his door, and then climbed back into the driver’s seat. The two of them did not speak for the rest of the trip, which took Douglas further out of the city than he had ever been before, and into the heavily wooded areas, sometimes called the Wilds. The car turned off the main road onto a recently placed gravel road, which wound through thick trees, up and around the side of a steep hill. Douglas stared out the window in awe at the seclusion of the area, but when the house came into view, he couldn’t keep his jaw from dropping. A massive, sprawling mansion occupied the top of the hill, hidden from the view of the main road, and most of the drive up to the house by tall, thick trees. Columns, and spires, and balconies covered the entire building, and everything was spotless, as if it had been built recently. The driver steered the car over to the front walkway, and then got out to open Douglas’s door.