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“Welcome to Maine” sign, the SUV left the highway and turned down a series of exponentially more rural side roads.  The last road onto which they turned was neither paved nor even gravel, simply a long stretch of dirt and grass with vague indications of tire marks.  After about half a mile, they reached a large clearing in which there stood three rather nondescript, brick-faced buildings. They looked small warehouses or large offices; Steven could not decide which.
    The SUV parked by the door of the middle building.  Other vehicles of similar make and model were parked around all three buildings.  However, there were no signs of life, no indications of who might drive those vehicles.
    Lefty and Righty got out of the car first.  Steven followed them awkwardly.  His legs and back were sore from sitting in the cramped backseat for so long, and he did not know what was expected of him.  “Should I bring my things?” he asked.
    “Not yet,” Righty responded, a tad curtly.
    Lefty swiped some kind of identification card to enter the building.  Inside, a short hallway brought them to a second door; this time, Righty swiped a card to get in.  They walked through a drab hallway lined with closed doors.  At a seemingly arbitrary door, they stopped.  Lefty extracted a key from his pocket, opened the door, and told Steven, “Wait in there for the General.”
    Steven blinked, confused.  “General” was not a rank used in the Navy.  It was an Army rank, he believed; the Navy equivalent would be an Admiral.  He opened his mouth to voice his confusion, but Righty put a hand on his back and pushed him, gently but firmly, into the room.  The door closed behind him; he knew even before he tried the handle that it would be locked from the outside.  He was not wrong.
    The room in which he was now essentially imprisoned was about 8’ by 10’, and entirely done in a very dark grey.  The walls, the carpeting, the two uncomfortable-looking chairs and the small, round table between them – all that same shade of dark, almost charcoal grey.  There were two panels of fluorescent lights in the tiled ceiling (the tiles were also grey); all of the dark grey coloring seemed to absorb the light. There were no windows.  Steven prowled around the small room like a caged animal.
    “Righty and Lefty’s uniforms were wrong,” he thought. “I couldn’t even tell for sure what their rank was.  And now I’m waiting for a “general”?  Have I been kidnapped?  Is this all some elaborate hoax?  What is going on?” His thoughts chased each other around his head, sending panic waves throughout his body.  His heart was beating too fast, his head was pounding.  He realized he was having an anxiety attack.  The realization did not make him feel any better.
    By the time he heard the door handle turning, Steven was near hyperventilation and clammy with cold sweat.  He stood at attention as the door opened, more because he didn’t know what else to do than out of any sense of duty.  A short, stocky man with grey hair and wire-rimmed glasses entered the room and closed the door behind him.  With a vague wave of the clipboard in his hand, the man said, “No need for all that, Drisbane.  Sit.”  Steven did so.
    The older man looked down at Steven, and was apparently startled by what he saw.  “Good heavens, man.  Are you alright?  Here, drink this.”  He handed Steven a bottle of water that he had been carrying, which was received gratefully.  As Steven sipped the water and tried to focus on breathing normally, the other man sat in the chair opposite him.  They looked at each other across the small, round table, sizing each other up.
    The older man was not wearing any kind of uniform Steven had ever seen.  He wore all black.  Black boots, black pants, black button-down shirt, black pea coat with strange, matte black insignias on the lapel.  His face was not unfriendly, and his blue eyes glittered with a kind of