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t his future business, but it’s obvious that you’re Rick’s boy. You look just like him. As for you all,” he continues, "I don't believe I’ve had the pleasure."
    "I'm Carson," Carson begins, since he’s closest to Robbie. He extends a hand.
    Mr. Cameron switches his cane to his left side and accepts Carson's handshake. He turns next to Francesca. "And you, young lady?"
    "I' m Francesca.” She smiles, stepping forward and extending her hand as well. He shakes it gently, then looks over her head at Blake and me. We state our names. Blake includes a wave. Mr. Cameron smiles back politely.
    "Why don’t you all come inside?” Without another word, he turns and disappears into the house. Spartacus pads inside as well, but stops just inside the door and sits down, looking at us invitingly.
    Francesca, Blake and I aren't sure what to do with the mess we’ve made, so we just leave the little pile on the floor, and follow Carson and Robbie, filing into the house one by one. As I shut the door behind me, Spartacus gives a happy bark. I lean over and scratch him under his chin.
    "It's nice to meet you , too .”
     

     
    Chapter 3
     
    “They say timing is everything. I would argue that spacing is a close second. It’s no use showing up right on time, if you fuse your leg through the coffee table.”
    -Excerpt from th e journal of Dr. Harold Quickly, 1989
     
    The inside of Robert Cameron’s house is an anomaly. The house is tastefully decorated but looks like it has been rifled through by hungry burglars, who raided the refrigerator and left dishes all over the house. As we file inside, we enter a general-purpose room off the kitchen, that leads to a large dining room to the right. The house isn’t dirty, but it’s disheveled, with cupboard doors left open in the kitchen and newspapers and jackets lain haphazardly on furniture. A pair of dog food cans on the kitchen counter haven’t made it to the trash. Raucous cheering from a television game show emanates from a room nearby. The dining room is the only area that looks like it hasn’t been tampered with.
    M r. Cameron picks up items from a roll top desk with his free left hand, but upon seeing that the waste paper basket next to the desk is already full, simply sets them back down. He looks at us, and then gestures to follow him. “Why don't we go in here.” He leads the way into an adjacent room. "Less of a disaster."
    We follow him into a spacious living area lined with floor to ceiling wooden bookshelves. Around the room, various comfortable looking armchairs and two love seats sit at right angles to one another. The seating surrounds a wooden table with a map of the world painted on it. I like the room immediately. It feels warm and comfortable. In the corner of the r oom is a birdcage, housing a pair of green parrots. The birds are chirping to one another and pay us little attention.
    Robbie walks around the room in a state of nostalgia, looking at things he hasn’t laid eyes on in years. I find myself just as interested. Odd knickknacks are interspersed on the shelves among the books and all of the objects look as though they have a story to tell. An ornate saber hangs on a hook with a copper hunting horn. There is a Mason jar of wooden dice and bucket of used wine corks. A wooden longbow leans on a collection of the works of Rudyard Kipling.
    Looks like he’s had some adventures.
    Mr. Cameron works his way to a high-backed leather armchair that has been turned to face the windows. He drags it toward the circle of other chairs and sits. He gestures to us to take seats, and we do, keeping our eyes on him as best we can, despite all there is to look at in the room.
    "I’m sorry the place is not more ready to entertain," Mr. Cameron begins. "I’m afraid I haven’t been keeping it up to the usual standards. My wife passed away recently and I’ve not had the interest in maintaining the place as I once did. Call it a deficit of motivation if you will.” He