Chapter 1

You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you

can start where you are and change the ending.

—C.S. Lewis

Parkside, San Francisco, California

8:20 a.m. GMT–8, April 28, 2022

The fog. The fog billows by. The fog that surrounds during the night

slowly retreats. So too begins the morning retreat of the infamous

San Francisco fog, slowly but surely back into the Pacific, only to

return once again every night. And so it has been for Peter Gollinger since he

was born. The wet blanket of billowing fog all night is all his mind knows.

Half-awake, half still in the fog of a traumatic dream, in a full sweat, he

bolts up out of bed, yelling, “I can’t kill. I can’t. What do I do?” Dazed, he

looks at his clammy hands held out in front of him, shaking, gripping

something.

Heart rate beyond tachycardic, clammy hands in tight fists, he looks

around in panic for someone. “Where is she? Forget where, who is she? Oh, I

wish, I wish I could remember these ordeals of my nights.”

Stumbling to his small bathroom, so tight his knees hit the wall when he’s

seated on the squeezed-in can, he turns and looks around his one-room studio

rental, the highest room in one of those pastel-colored stucco box houses that

line the streets of this part of San Francisco.

“Did I just remember a dream? Did I just dream of a gun? I hate guns.

Why would I dream of things that scare me?”

He sighs again, looking at his war zone of a bed with the pillows bunched

up and tossed about, the sheet and blankets in twisted spirals, flung in all

directions. He glances back into the oval mirror over the sink in his small

bathroom. He brushes back his sandy brown hair, with vestiges of the

blondness of his younger days. He tries to smile to show his dimples, but he

can only frown as the bags under his eyes signal the fatigue his nightly dramas

bring. “If only I could get a restful night. Even once every new moon would

do,” muses Peter.

A mug full of microwave-heated imitation gourmet coffee and Peter is

ready to start his day at his dilapidated desk, perpendicularly placed next to

his one window that provides just a peek of his precious Pacific fog. The walls

of his tiny place are bare save three posters, ones that remind him of someone

who meant so much to him. The newest with all the Starship Enterprises, from

the 60s to the seventh of the reboot series. Another with all the alien gods and

goddess of the Stargate franchises. And one emblazoned with the X-Files

motto: I want to believe.

He clasps his MoxWrap around his wrist like a lucky rabbit foot. He needs

some luck to go his way again. He could never have afforded one of these, but

one day last year, MoxWorld Holdings sent him one free. Totally free, with

no service fees, even. He won one of those contests where he answered a series

of questions. Somewhat personal questions, but free is free.

MoxWorld clearly demonstrated to him why they were the worldwide

leaders in all things digital. Out of nowhere, they even sent him a free

upgraded unit last week. Other than the quite pleasant tingling feeling he gets

from the occasional upgrade, what’s not to like?

He had to play a promo ad to activate this unit:

“The device sitting on your wrist now will change your life. For the better.

The MoxWrap is simply revolutionary. Thin, flexible, and available in your

choice of seven sizes that allow custom molds around any adult’s arm. Lighter

than the now-obsolete smartphone, with the comfort of a terry-cloth

wristband, the MoxWrap contains the power of a personal command center.

With solar-assisted batteries, the run time vastly exceeds all previous options.

You could be in the wilderness for days, and as long as the sun shines, you

will have around-the-clock minicomputer power through its satellite links to

hectares of processors, the largest databases in the world, and infinite memory

capacity. Triple the bandwidth and burst speeds of the best alternative

technology allows for applications never imaginable until now.

Congratulations on a smart decision.”

He taps his lucky rabbit foot surrogate and the associated processor unit

on his desk beams up a screen as well as a virtual keyboard hologram.

Keyboards are the instruments of his music. Of his magic. For he is an editor.

A copy editor, making the written work of others that much better.

He reads his messages, deleting all but the flagged one from MoxMedia he

has kept for two days. Fingers tapping the desk, he waits for a message from

his managing editor, Jerrod, with news of his bonus, as well as—maybe—an

offer to become permanent and no longer a contractor. He rubs his MoxWrap

again, wishing for luck.

He picks up an old-fashioned picture frame on his desk that holds an

equally old-fashioned photo print of a woman. Someone else no longer in his

life, who meant so much to him. She is attractively and tastefully posed, with

her long dishwater-blond hair in a ponytail cascading down the front of her

open plaid shirt, which is tied at the bottom, covering her sports bra. Her

raggedy blue jean cut-offs accent her lovely tanned legs, which slip right into

her grey woolen socks, encased in her medium-height brown hiking boots.

She was picture-perfect, his goddess at the top of Mount Shasta.

Catching himself lamenting about what once was, he puts a tank top and

shorts on his lean runner’s body, one of average height for an American.

Within minutes he is jogging down the Great Coastal Highway alongside his

beloved Pacific Ocean. Running in the fog is his best therapy for the fog of

his brain, trying to resolve what he cannot fathom during his dark dreams.

Walking up to his studio room after his morning ritual outing, he hears

his MoxWrap sound. “Argh. Bus to the Angel’s Rest nursing home will be

here in fifteen. Pappy will be so disappointed if I’m late. And Dr. Beverly. I

hope she liked the final edit of her book.”

A quick shower and he pulls on jeans and a black t-shirt emblazoned with

a yellow banana slug, mascot of his alma mater.

Looking out the bus window at his native California, Peter sees a land of

cars, about sixteen million of them. People like Peter, who do not drive, who

do not even have a driver’s license, who are creative in finding public

transportation options—they are reducing society’s dependency on fossil

fuels, the destructive addiction to gasoline that has governed global politics

since the Second World War. As he rides the No. 397 bus from San Francisco

to Daly City, he ponders. How many wars have been fought, in the name of

God, in the name of democracy, in the name of whatever is painted to be

“just,” to ensure that the oil flows and is affordable? Peter wishes someone

could change this.

He taps his MoxWrap to watch the MoxMedia morning news program.

The world-renowned newscasters Rhonda and Sahir blare out the latest global

events on this Friday morning. “Coming up on MoxWorld News AM: In

Washington, the president defends the previous administration’s America

First policy as conflicts around the globe continue to escalate. The Great

Depression of 2020 has left the country with such an unprecedented deficit

that it can no longer afford to be the world’s policeman.

“In the Middle East, the price of oil fell through its previous floor of

twenty dollars per barrel as the Arabic Confederation last night launched an

invasion into Iran, while they amass troops at the Turkish border near

Kobanî. Recall that back in 2020, the catalyst for the creation of the Arabic

Confederation and the New Kurdistan out of the former Syria and Iraq was

the price of oil tumbling below twenty-five dollars per barrel, sending the

region into chaos once again. In Moscow, the Russian president issued terse

warnings of military reprisal for the downing of three more Russian fighters

in Turkey’s latest challenge to Russia’s no-fly zone over New Kurdistan, the

two-year-old union of the Kurds in former Iraq and Syria. In the South China

Sea, warships from China, Japan, and the Philippines face off. In Europe, the

Great Recession continues to take its toll as France and Germany retrench

spending again for the rest of 2022, announcing their inability to fund NATO

obligations. More after these messages.”

Seeing Rhonda, with her salmon-colored blouse and lips tinted peach with

lipstick from her signature makeup collection, now being advertised on his

MoxWrap, makes Peter think of his sister’s commentary on how the CEO of

MoxWorld controls women through the fashions of his female newscasters.

Peter arrives at Angel’s Rest, where Pappy has convalesced for the past four

years. As the only grandson of Nikolas Gollinger, Peter carries a deep unspoken

obligation, the only heir to the family mission his grandfather has passed along

their calling, their quest, their pursuit, their ancestral commitments.

Jenny at the front desk knows Peter very well, given how frequently he

visits. Even the attending physicians do not come as often as Peter. “Good

afternoon, Mr. Gollinger,” says Jenny teasingly.

“Jenny, it’s just Peter,” he banters back playfully.

“Mr. Gollinger is finished with his breakfast and is expecting you…Peter,

Mr. Peter. Oh yes, Dr. Fontaine is here today. She would like to talk with

you. Could you stop by her office?”

With a smidgeon of concern, Peter asks, “Anything out of the ordinary,

Jenny? Is he okay?”

“Oh, no worries about Mr. Gollinger. I think Dr. Fontaine is looking for

another special favor from you,” replies Jenny with an uncharacteristic

schoolgirl-style giggle as she dials the intercom. “Dr. Fontaine, Peter

Gollinger is here. Shall I send him down? Okay, he’s coming down now.”

With that, he is reassured and wanders down to the office that Dr.

Fontaine uses when she is visiting patients at Angel’s Rest. He sees her waiting

in the hallway outside her office. She’s more than an inch shorter than him,

seeming even shorter as she wears sensible black shoes with the slightest of

heels, which complement her brown hair, up in a tight professional bun. She

wears a white physician’s coat tailored for a woman, unlike the flat draping

ones for men. The coat is open and Peter can see she wears a white cotton

blouse and grey wool pencil skirt underneath. It does not escape Peter’s

attention that this is the first time he has seen her in a skirt, however

businesslike, and not in dark slacks.

“Peter, please come in and sit down,” says the doctor as she waves him in.

Out of habit, Peter goes to one of two chairs on the patient side of the

doctor’s desk. He looks at her business cards on the desk. Assistant Professor

of Clinical Geriatric Psychiatry, UC San Francisco Medical School.

After hanging her white lab coat behind the door, which she closes, Dr.

Fontaine opts to sit in the other patient chair, facing him with her legs crossed,

top one pointing at Peter. “Once again, you are my hero. My savior. I finished

reviewing all your changes and suggestions to my latest manuscript…our

latest manuscript. You are simply a genius with ideas, thoughts, and words,”

Dr. Fontaine says.

“Dr. Fontaine, of course—you deserve the best a simple editor like me can

offer.”

“Peter, we’re behind closed doors now. Remember, you can call me

Beverly when I’m not on rounds or with patients,” she replies with a smile.

“You’re a special person. And I mean not just your editorial skills, but your

compassion. I’ve never seen anyone visit their dearest family member in a

convalescent home more than you. I think your visits have helped prolong

your grandfather’s life, or at least improve the quality of it.”

“How is he doing, Doctor…uh…Beverly?”

“Dr. Elfante, your grandfather’s physician, mentioned to me on my last visit

that your grandfather is doing well, considering the severity of his condition.

Having been a smoker for most of his life has taken its toll on his lungs. He’s a

real fighter, though. He’s determined to live for some greater purpose. Your visits are vital to his sense of purpose, Peter. You are his best therapy.”

“Beverly, I cannot thank you enough for advocating that my grandfather

not be given antipsychotics. That would be the end of him, at least his spirit.

He really wants to be cognizant in his last days.”

“Peter, I’ll be candid. My colleagues and the nurses are afraid of his restless

nights, his dreams, and how unsettled he is every morning. Dr. Elfante and I

had a long discussion about the situation, and I convinced him, after much

personal observation, that your grandfather is not endangering himself or

other patients. He’s not violent or clinically deranged. He’s just very anxious

about trying to grasp his dreams.”

Beverly shifts in her chair, leans on her left elbow with her fingers to her

lips. “That said, he seems to have confided in me more than he does in Dr.

Elfante. These dreams seem to be an issue that he’s been grappling with ever

since early childhood. Smoking was one of the ways he had been coping with

this disorder.”

Beverly pauses, coyly smiles, and adds, “He’s been very candid about how

your grandmother had helped him cope. As he felt more comfortable talking

with me, he described her administration of a special palliative care. He

confessed that prolonged passionate interactions with his wife helped him

more than the smoking. At first I dismissed his comments as reflective of male

wish fulfillment typical in men of his generation.”

A little flushed, Peter purses his lips, then asks, “How much has my

grandfather talked about his dreams and what he’s trying to solve?”

“Your grandfather’s dreams are suggestive of a prior traumatic event, but

his life history doesn’t suggest he has directly experienced or witnessed such

an event. His condition could perhaps be the subject of another paper. Carl

Jung would have suggested that your grandfather’s dreams are a sign of great

personal transformation trying to emerge—his search for a greater context,

one with a greater sense of purpose and destiny.”

“Bev, I’m not making the link between what you’re saying and my

grandfather’s affliction.”

“The collective unconscious is part of our mind that is shared with other

humans, common to all humankind, and stems from latent memories from

our ancestral past. Perhaps in your grandfather’s case, his dreams are trying to

bring out some ancestral traumatic event.”

With a smile she adds, “Freud, on the other hand, would call his dreams

‘wish fulfillment.’ There is a forbidden or repressed wish, which may be a

result of guilt or taboos imposed by society or family. The dream is the way

to transform that wish in a nonthreatening way. It’s an attempt to resolve the

repressed conflict.”

Peter shifts in his chair as he reacts to the mention of conflict. He debates

discussing the dream from last night that he can’t seem to remember.

Peter is saved by the intercom buzzing. It’s Jenny, who says, “Dr.

Fontaine, it’s Mrs. Fitzgerald again. She’s having a fit and the staff nurse is

requesting that you come as soon as you can.”

Beverly stands up to get her white coat from the door, pauses, and turns

back to Peter. “I’ll catch up with you in your grandfather’s ward. We have to

talk about the book that I’ll need your editorial help with,” she says before

running down the hallway.

Walking down to his grandfather’s unit, Peter reflects upon Beverly’s

propositions. Maybe his grandfather will have further wisdom on the subject,

he muses as he enters his pappy’s room. A single room, as the restlessness of

his dreams has precluded his peaceful cohabitation with another elderly

patient. His grandfather is slightly elevated in bed, with an oxygen mask over

a nasal cannula, indicating he is under duress.

“Pappy, how are you today? Needing a little more oxygen this morning?”

Taking off his mask, Pappy, a bit short of breath, says, “Peter. My boy. A

little late today, aren’t we?”

“I was talking with Dr. Fontaine about a new project she’s working on.”

“Oh, the good doctor. Why can’t I have her as my physician? She’d be so

much better than that Dr. Elephant. She’s so much more compassionate and

understanding.”

“So I gather, Pappy. You two have been spending some quality time

together.”

“I was simply trying to get her to understand how best to provide me

comfort.”

“So I’ve heard, Pappy. How was your night? Anything clearer?”

“The same. What I would give for a peaceful night. Peace. Even the partial

peace your grandmother provided. It isn’t so much to ask,” Pappy groans. “As

always, I awake knowing I dreamt something very important, but I cannot

piece it together. Ninety-four years of this. Ninety-two, if you don’t count

the years I couldn’t speak. And what about you? Can you remember

anything?”

Scratching his head, Peter stares out the window. “The same agony of not

being able to put my finger on that important something.” He turns and

shivers. “A darkness. An emptiness. A void. That is, except for a gun.”

Pappy lurches up, very focused. “Peter, my boy, this is very important.

Tell me more.”

Peter moves closer to Pappy and helps him lean back to rest. “You know

how it is. Everything is so fuzzy. I’ve never remembered anything from these

nightly torments. But strangely, the past two mornings it’s different. Maybe

a gun, and a woman. Dark hair?”

“Yes. Yes! Gun and dark hair, Peter,” Pappy gasps. He puts the oxygen

mask back on. “I’ve waited. Thirty years. For you and me. To have the same

dream. And you needed to save her.”

Shaking his head, Peter stares down at his pappy’s aged hands holding his

mask on. “I’m afraid I can’t save anyone. Even in my dreams.”

“Everything has changed now that I know you and I have dreamed the

same images,” exclaims Pappy.

Peter pauses, processing that revelation. “Pappy, I was just down the

hallway with Dr. Fontaine, discussing the psychology of dreams. But she

explained things in such a simple way that I now understand how these

theories might relate to our disorder. She says ours are anxiety dreams. That

our minds are acting out some repression. Jung says it’s a sign that we’re trying

to transform. We’re driven by something repressed that happened to our

prehistoric ancestors.”

Peter stares at his grandfather. “What repressed conflict are we seeking to

resolve? What transformation are we seeking?”

Pappy takes Peter’s hand. “Peter, all we have is our family tradition to

guide us. Please, repeat it for me. That is the so-called repressed conflict of

Dr. Fontaine.”

Peter gulps. Looking serious, he says, “The long-tailed star came from the

sky, and our lands became ice, and winter became forever. Only the giants of

the reindeer dominate. The bright star that never sets will be your guide.

Watch for the long-tailed star.”

“Good, my boy. The second part, now.”

“And be wary of the giants, the Reindeer People, for when they arrive, you

must flee and seek the mountains.”

Pappy, assuming the patriarchal appearance that has commanded Peter’s

life, says, “The third part.”

Nervous, Peter continues, “Follow the black object, for this will guide you

as you search for your new life.”

With deepening aggravation, Pappy gasps and admonishes Peter. “Boy,

you must—you must not change anything. We have recited this from the

beginning of our line. As far back as my great-grandfather, and he said as far

back as his great-grandfather, we have passed down these oral traditions. We

must preserve them.” Pappy gasps again, and Peter helps put the mask on

him.

From under the mask, Pappy mutters in slow, broken phrases, “Follow

the vision. And words. Of the black object. For this will guide you. As you

seek your new land.” He stops and waits for the oxygen to rebuild in his blood,

then nods for Peter to continue.

Peter mentally rehearses and finally recites, “Fourth part: Man and

woman. Only as two together can you find peace. The object can save. You

might see in sleep, might hear.”

Pappy rests his head back and gasps. After several tense minutes, he

removes the mask. “Peter, forgive an old man if he repeats himself every time

you visit. But I find that if I don’t keep repeating myself, at my age I will

begin to forget. And my grandfather pounded into my head that we should

never forget.

“He made me promise to find the meaning of this object, as I have made

you and your father promise. He said what has happened in our past will

guide us in what will happen to us now.” He pauses to breathe. “And, my

boy, you have been faithful to this quest.

“When I was a boy, we had only books to help us solve the mystery of this

object,” laments Pappy. “But that little Austrian burned the ones my father

and I needed to find to continue our research, our study. It was my Austria

too, and yet he burnt our books. How were we to find this object? What did

we have to compromise for this quest? What line did my father cross to save

us all?”

A very dark pause passes between them as the aged man runs his tongue

along the inside of his mouth. “His death would be in vain if we could not

make progress in finding the object. Our family name would be exonerated if

you could find it, Peter.”

Pappy pauses again, in deep reflection, with a look of regret mired in pain.

“After the war, I met your mother’s uncle, James, who was just like me. He

suffered the dreams. The dreams that haunted both his parents’ lineages as

they did mine. And we searched together. But postwar Europe was a mess,

Peter.”

He stares out into the hall and spots Dr. Fontaine looking busy across the

way with some charts. “And then your grandmother found me. She was a

nurse. Part of an American relief program. She recognized the dreams. Her

grandfather had them. And she knew what she needed to do to help me

through the nights, through the next morning.”

Pappy pauses. “Were you able to make any progress in your search last

week, my boy?”

Peter grimaces. “I thought I had a lead, like so many I’ve had over the

years. The professor I studied under at Santa Cruz, she has so many useful

resources and contacts. When you’re an editor, it’s amazing the doors that

open to those who want your services. Her latest contact had traced a possible

pre-Neolithic site that might tell of where the object may lie—Tell Abu

Hureyra, fifty miles east of Aleppo. The Gollinger luck strikes again. The site

is thirty feet under Lake Assad. As if I could assemble an underwater

excavation team. Besides, given what’s happened today, with the Arabic

Confederation staging an impending attack on Turkey from that area, I don’t

think I’m going to get anyone over there to help with recovering this source.”

“Peter, keep trying. You are now our ancestors’ only hope. I wish I could

fund you. I spent our entire family fortune chasing the object. But I have

taken both families’ words and traditions and passed them to you. You have

a more complete set than any of us ever had,” Pappy concludes, taking Peter’s

hand again.

“I thought your father was going to solve the mystery. I was so proud of

him when he was accepted into the archeology program at Cambridge. When

he came back, I introduced him to your mother. I thought she knew what

your father needed, just like your grandmother did.”

Pappy pauses, taking a break for oxygen. “But she couldn’t handle it

anymore. Once you and your sister were in school, she told your father that

he had a choice—her or the object. Your father stopped searching, stopped

teaching you the traditions. It didn’t make his pains any better. It just got

worse. I didn’t tell him he failed. I told him I failed him. And you.”

“And Ma blames you for his death,” Peter says with tears forming. “I loved

Pa. I love Ma. I think I understand why it was so hard for her. Sarah said the

same thing to me.”

Pappy peers down at his hands. “I’m so sorry. She was a lovely girl. I

thought you two would…I thought she was so much like your grandmother.

Even better, as she shared your passion for history and discovery.”

“Pappy. Sarah, Ciara, Tara—all of them keepers according to Ma’s

definitions. All of them left me because of my pursuit of this mysterious

object. At this rate, you’ll never have great-grandchildren for me to pass these

traditions down to. My sister’s like Ma. She doesn’t want to learn them. Says

it’s just a man thing.”

“My boy, we are close. Our dreams last night. Close. Close as they have

ever been. It’s time for you to be introduced to something. Your granduncle

James wanted to pass a written document on to you, but your mother refused

to give it to you for fear that you’d end up like your father. James and I agreed

we would only show you when you found a good woman as your partner. I

thought once you married Sarah…”

“Pappy, I’m trying my best to move on from Sarah. Evidently, I’m not the

kind of man who could provide the protection, the security, a woman like her

desires.”

“That’s what your father said. That is, until your grandmother had the

good sense to introduce him to James’s niece, your mother.” Pappy coughs.

“My boy, it is no secret that I am slowly dying. We cannot wait until you find

that woman you are to meet. The dream we had must be the signal. Please,

in that drawer, you’ll find James’s document.”

Peter opens the drawer in the closet and finds a metal cylinder, like a mini

thermos, with air lock seals. He opens it to find a small scroll. Animal skin

parchment, with drawings looking like Hs. These progress to two abstract

figures with their hands in front of them, forming an H. Alongside the H,

another tall male figure with a long face, long ears, and large dark eyes points

to a long-tailed star. Alongside this man, a smaller female points to an oblong

shape under a series of dots. A third female figure has one hand pointing at

the series of dots and the other at an angle of sixty degrees. Adjacent to the

figures is an area with some sort of characters.

“What is this, Pappy? How old is it? What is this part, writing?”

“What you’re holding is faith. My faith. Now our faith. When James

showed me this parchment, my faith was renewed. It’s a dialect of Akkadian

cuneiform. Right after the war, carbon dating was just being introduced to

the archeological community. Through my war buddies, we got a sample of

this tested.” Pappy pauses to catch his breath. “It’s four thousand years old.

Four thousand.”

Stunned, Peter sits on the side of the bed. He stares at the parchment and

his mind races with the possibilities. He takes several snapshots with his

MoxWrap and turns towards Pappy, asking, “Do you believe in God?”

Looking down with a dour expression, Pappy responds, “My boy, with

what I saw—with all that happened—there could not be a God.” He pauses

and sighs. “At least, not one who loves us.”

“Hence why Ma wanted to distance herself from you,” Peter laments. “She

so wanted me to believe, to have faith. To have faith in her God. But your

faith, this animal skin in my hands, is my faith too. These are aliens, Pappy.

These are aliens who met the Akkadians in 2000 BCE.”

Pappy holds his hand out so that Peter can hand him the parchment. He

turns it upside down and sideways and says, “It could be Akkadian

Halloween. It could be aliens. It could be God’s angels.” He gives the

parchment back to Peter.

“Your father was working on translating the cuneiform. It’s an old form

and a rare dialect from the northernmost reaches of the empire. He became

lost in dozens of interpretations when your mother forced him to stop. It’s

now up to you, Peter. In this digital age, in a world that is interconnected,

maybe it’s you who will find the answer.”

“Mr. Gollinger, how are we doing today?” says Dr. Fontaine as she enters

the room. “Did Peter tell you? He’s offering to work with me on a new book

on religion and the psychobiology of the soul. With what you’ve passed along

to him, his talents will be especially invaluable to me.”

Pappy glances at Peter and gives a thumbs-up. “Go for it, my boy. She’s a

keeper, this doctor.”

And the nonagenarian Gollinger takes the doctor’s hand so he can rub her

palm. “And, Doctor, could you do me a favor and take my grandson home

with you tonight? He’s behind on his ancient obligation to make more

Gollingers who can continue our search for our precious object.”

Beet-faced, Peter just wants to crawl under a bed somewhere and hide. But

the good doctor turns and takes his hand into hers and says, “I have to say,

with your grandson’s killer dimples, his eyes that emote an adorable

innocence, he is handsome. But if I married him, I would lose my best editor.”

She winks at Peter and says, “We couldn’t do that, now could we?”

She then spies the parchment in between hers and Peter’s hands and says,

“May I?”

She gently examines the antique animal skin, carefully scanning both sides,

then looks at Peter and says, “I have to wonder if this is related to your

grandfather’s dreams. I would love to learn more. But I have to get back to

Mrs. Fitzgerald and adjust her medications again.” She leaves, writing notes

down on her clipboard.

“Pappy, exactly what did you tell her about Grandma? From Beverly’s, I

mean Dr. Fontaine’s recounting, she thinks sex is the treatment protocol for

your condition,” Peter jests.

“My boy, I’ve surmised that you’ve already found out that sex helps. It

calms your nerves so you can grapple with what the dreams, and your inability

to remember the dreams, do to you.”

Shaking his head, Peter exclaims, “Ma says you told her she had to have

sex with Pa every night, in the middle of the night. She thought you were just

passing along ancient male power plays over women, so she resisted your

ideas. Dr. Fontaine more politely said this is another case of male wish

fulfillment. I can’t believe sex is the only solution to our problems.”

Pappy shakes his head too. “Peter, do not mistake my words. I should have

said passionate bonding, not necessarily sexual bonding or, more crudely,

physical penetration.” Pappy pauses for oxygen. “The touch of passion creates

bonds between you and your mate. Bonds that create dialogue. Bonds that

will help the two of you decode the dreams. You need to talk about what

you’re coping with in order to make any progress in understanding what is

happening.”

Pappy stops to catch his breath, and then he says in a fatherly way, “I think

you need—the tradition requires that you are paired with a woman. A good

woman to find the answer to our traditions. The answer to that scroll.”

A frown passes over Peter’s face as he ponders his failings with Sarah.

“How do I know what makes a woman ‘good’ according to your definition?”

His grandfather closes his eyes, and a warm smile lifts his mouth. “You

will know, my boy. You will know first from her touch, her smell, her voice

and the sounds of her heart. And only then can you know her with your eyes.”

Closing his eyes too, Peter tries to remember Sarah’s touch, her smell, but

he can only remember the shame, the failure of discovering her in their bed

with that alpha male muscleman. Everything he is not. And that deep pain

wells up, and water seeps from the corners of his closed eyes.

“My boy, are you all right? Did you have one of those damn flashbacks?”

asks Pappy.

“I’m sorry, Pappy. I just had one of those moments. I’m okay.”

Pappy stares somberly down at his hands. “I’ve had those moments for

near eight decades now only to have failed my father. Peter, please don’t let

me fail you as well. Please.”

Scrolling his MoxMail to find that message, the message, Peter says,

“Pappy, I have the solution. I’ll apply for the junior editor position with

MoxMedia in their Middle East correspondence unit. I’ll have access to all of

MoxMedia’s resources to find the object. I’ve been sitting on this invitation

to apply for a couple of days, wondering whether I have what it takes. I won’t

fail you, Pappy. I’ll make sure I have what it takes.