Première histoire: le journaliste
> There is nothing you can see that is not a flower; there is nothing you can think that is not the moon.
>
> -Matsuo Basho
The sound of the Uber driver honking his horn woke me up from my spaced-out state. I was still in a daze thinking about the crazy thing I was about to do. The whole thing was so unreal I still couldn’t believe I was going through with it.
It had only been a few hours since I confirmed the request on the KwikJobs website. In truth, I had almost given up hope. Five months and I had only managed to get a dozen small writing gigs. Those jobs netted me all of $523.34. That barely covered my utilities, let alone my rent and student loans. If it weren’t for my part time job and meager savings, I would have already been sunk.
Now, miraculously I managed to snag an actual commissioned article, and at a $2,000 rate. I knew that seasoned writers could pull in fees like that, but a nobody like me? It felt like I had won the lottery.
The horn blared again. I was still distracted. I threw on my jacket and grabbed my bag, phone, and keys, and rushed to the door of my apartment. Before I stepped through the door, I stopped in front of the full-length mirror and checked my appearance.
I had dressed as professionally as possible, considering the state of my wardrobe options. Looking at the person before me, I tried to give myself a fair appraisal.
Hair; my short dark hair was clean and brushed. No bedhead. Check.
Face; my best feature, in my opinion, no makeup, but my milk chocolate complexion and twenty-three-year-old skin let me get away with it. At least for now. Check.
Dental check; Nothing green poking out. Check.
Outfit; Dark blue blazer and white blouse were ironed. Matching pants… passible. Check.
This was the best I could do on such short notice. I stepped out of my room to lock the front door. The doorframe was slightly warped, so I always had to pull hard on the door while I locked it or the key wouldn’t turn.
It was an old place, but likely the cheapest room in the entire area. Brookline was one of the ritziest neighborhoods in Boston, but there was a narrow strip of classic buildings along the D-line tracks where a few historic houses remained. I managed to get a tiny studio in the basement of the four-story house for not much more than my previous place in Dorchester. Of course, it was half the size, the “kitchen” was a microwave on top of a mini fridge, and I had to do my laundry at the laundromat down the street, but it was clean, safe, and convenient.
As I walked out the side door to the building, the driver revved his engine, obviously getting impatient. I waved my arms as I ran over to the car.
“Hey! You! Samira? That you? I’m waiting. Hurry!” A middle-aged man with a thick Russian accent yelled from the window of a late-model Mercedes sedan. I checked the license plate to be sure. This was far better than the usual Hyundai or old Toyota that usually showed up when I ordered an Uber. When I could afford to get an Uber that is. I hopped in the back seat and smiled as I sat back into the soft leather seats.
“Samira… uh Nazeri?” He said looking at me.
“Samantha. Yeah. That’s me.”
“Going to South Shore?”
I nodded.
“It’s going to take about an hour. You want water, there’s a bottle on the door. Is good we are going now, against the traffic.”
I nodded again.
“Thanks.”
I had never used the Uber Black service before. Technically I was just riding in it. The car was arranged by the client too. Appreciating the feeling of the leather upholstery, I had to admit it was nice, except for the strong smell of cigarette smoke and equally strong car deodorant. I pulled a mask from my bag and slipped it on. I always kept them on me, and ever since COVID, no one took offense if you put them on, even though I did it mostly to mute the smell of cigarettes.
As the car pulled onto Boylston, I pulled out the stack of printouts that I had hurriedly made from the research I was able to do online, based on the information I received from the client. The first few pages were stnadard background information. I knew most of this already. I mean, pretty much everyone knew this much.
The job was simple at first glance. I would be doing an interviewing for a European fashion magazine. That wasn’t special or unusual. The subject of the interview however, was both of those things. I would be interviewing none other than Lucas Anderson. The Lucas Anderson, known better as L.S. Mercury. The most famous fiction writer in the world.
I didn’t believe it at first when I opened the file with the interview details. To be honest, I still had my doubts. How could a no-name freelance writer, fresh out of Northeastern, manage to bag an interview with one of the most famous, and notoriously reclusive, people in the world? It was unbelievable. If it weren’t for the 50% advance they put into my account I would have assumed it was a total scam. As it was, I still had my doubts.
I didn’t know why or how a French luxury goods company had set this all up, and why they were using a nobody freelance writer instead of, I don’t know, a staff writer at the New Yorker or Rolling Stones Magazine. All I did was submit some writing samples and send a current photograph and they had approved my contract within a few hours.
Leaning back into the wonderful soft leather, I skimmed the printouts, trying to memorize as much as possible. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
L.S. Mercury, real name Lucas Silas Anderson (76), Born April 22, 1947, in South Boston.
Never married, no known children.
Graduated from South Boston High School in 1966, then worked at several jobs including dockworker, bartender, and even janitor at his old high school.
He was a prolific writer on the side and wrote mostly short stories, although none were ever published, even after he made it big. His big break came when he wrote the first chapter of his life’s work, Traveler.
Originally meant to be another short story, his manuscript was accidentally picked up by the editor of Aurora magazine, the largest sci-fi periodical of the time. There had been a mix up and his submission had been swapped for that of an already approved author.
The editor, who had confused the work for something written by another author, read the piece and was so impressed that he offered to buy the story then and there, provided that Lucas would continue the story as a regular serial for the weekly magazine.
Traveler as everyone now knows, is the most popular IP in history, and Lucas went from a nobody to the man who revolutionized and subsequently dominated the fiction industry for nearly half a century.
In the forty-eight years after the publishing of that first entry, Traveler has never once missed publishing a weekly chapter. In one month, there will be a celebration for the 2,500th chapter of the story. This anniversary had again brought the work to the forefront of the media circus.
Traveler had changed not only the literary world but nearly every sector of modern society. Philosophy, religion, politics, technology, and even international relations, have all been deeply affected by the work of L.S. Mercury. Its story of adventure, morality, spirituality, sacrifice, and achievement touched and inspired people across the world, crossing language and cultural borders and bringing together fans from every age and walk of life.
The chapters have now been translated into over a thousand different languages and dialects, including two languages that were entirely invented within the pages of the story itself. Book sales, conventions, stage, television, and film adaptations, not to mention video games and other products were a multi-billion dollar industry, grossing more than all professional sports combined.
It was estimated that over 99% of the global population will come in direct contact with the works of L.S. Mercury in their lifetime.
However, with this level of popularity, of course, also come questions, scandals, and mysteries.
The biggest mystery of all was of course Lucas Anderson himself. While he basked in his fame early in his career, doing many interviews and appearances, and was often seen with celebrities and people of power, by the mid-90s he had all but disappeared from the public eye. He turned down all requests for interviews and hid from the press and photographers. The last verified photograph of Lucas Anderson was taken in 1998, and its poor quality has led many to question its authenticity.
I looked at the grainy and blurry photograph wondering how much the photographer had made from this picture that looked like it could have been of anybody. The more I looked over these notes, the more unbelievable the situation was. It had been more than thirty years since anyone had interviewed this man. Why now? Why me?
“Is it ok? The air? Too hot? Want me to turn up the AC?” The driver called back to me.
“I’m good. It’s fine.” I responded, flipping through the rest of the photos I had of the subject.
He was average-looking in his youth. The pictures were definitely taken in the pre-Instagram era, with no care at all taken to get a good angle. There was a picture from his high school yearbook; horrible, but that was to be expected. A thin, white boy with brown hair and green eyes, bad skin, and a broken tooth. Another of him standing behind a bar with several other people. It must have been taken in his early twenties.
There were plenty of the promotional pictures used for his books. Some were the ones they would use to make the giant posters for the conventions of rabid fans held all over the world. In those, he looked older and more mature. His smile, now with perfect teeth, expressed wisdom and optimism. Other than that, there were only a few tabloid photos, all decades old, that barely even looked like him. Then nothing. No one had any idea what the man looked like today.
Of course, I had heard the rumors. That L.S. Mercury was fake. That there was really no such person anymore. Hadn’t been for years. Lucas Anderson had died decades ago and now rooms of ghostwriters produced his weekly chapter. I even thought they might be on to something. It seemed so strange that someone who had accomplished so much had walked away from all that fame, never communicating with his billions of fans. I don’t even know how someone could dedicate their entire adult life, twice as long as I had been alive even, to one single work. Was that level of dedication even human?
It was unreal that in a short while, I might have an answer to that question that people had been debating online for years.
“Um. Mind if I ask you something?” I leaned forward to address the driver.
“Sure, what do you want to know?” The man replied quickly.
“The order you got to pick me up. Do you know anything about who put it in?” I wasn’t expecting much, but I was getting more and more curious as I got closer to the destination. The money blinded me at first, but nagging questions were starting to pile up in my head.
“Not really. Just the name. One second.” He reached over to his passenger seat where his phone was lying on his jacket.
“I just have pickup information. You. Samira Nazeri, 42 Cameron Road, Brookline. 9:30 AM.”
“What about the drop-off address?” I asked.
“Ehhh. One minute. Here. 400 King Caesar Road. Duxbury. Nice area. Big houses.”
“Who ordered the pickup?”
“No who. It’s a corporate account… uhh, Hermes.”
I sighed. That’s all the informational I had too. Well, actually I had more. I had a contact name as well, Mr. Engel Dolios. I hadn’t actually spoken to him directly. We just went back and forth a few times via email, to work out the details of the interview.
“Yeah, Thanks,” I said as I slumped back into the chair.
Now that the fantasy of paying off all my credit card debt was no longer dancing in my mind, distracting me from thinking critically, I started to scrutinize the details more closely.
This was starting to feel like some kind of a trap.
I took out my phone and looked through the emails I had received. Then I noticed something I had skipped over before.
Dolios’s email was not hermes.com as I had assumed, but was in fact hermescorporation.com.
I had initially checked the website to learn more about the company, but I had looked at the wrong website.
“Hey, do you know anything about that company? Hermès?” I used the pronunciation a friend of mine had taught me. She was really into designer brands and things like that. It had the European vowel thing. You said it like Her-mezz.
“Huh? No. You said it wrong. The company is Hermes. Not Hermès. The Hermès. That’s the fancy bag one. I know. My wife, she made me buy her a bag five years ago for our anniversary. Then she ran away. Can you believe it? That bag cost eight hundred dollars! Fifteen years married then she takes my money, takes that bag, and flies back to Ukraine. So glad we never had kids you know?”
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“Wait, the company is different? Not the bag company?”
“No. No. The “e” is different. Ah! You Americans don’t even know all the letters. The one with “è” is French company. Famous. Makes expensive bags. The other one. Just regular “e” like the God. The Greek one. You know? He runs really fast? Hermes. That’s the one who booked my car.”
Crap. I really screwed up. I took this job without even doing proper due diligence. Well, I was still new at this. A rookie mistake. Deep down I knew that I just got greedy when I saw the payment for the commission and the deposit cleared.
Actually, now it made more sense. Why a French fashion company had hired me to interview a fiction writer made no sense in the first place.
I typed in the URL for the actual client’s webpage on my phone. What came back didn’t help much.
Instead of the fancy retail webpage I had looked up earlier, all I saw was a spartan, but tasteful business webpage. It didn’t give up much, however. No mention of what kind of business, or photos and names of the officers. Not even a corporate address. Just a generic query email address.
The webpage was simple, with the name and logo of the company, Hermes, along with an ostentatious depiction of the Greek god. Underneath there was a short quote in Latin.
> Praesente habitare iuveni immortali;
>
> Immortalis aetas praeter immortal iuventutem;
>
> Totus fui in favilla.
Sure I took some Latin in high school, but this was beyond me. I picked out the word “immortal” though, and I was pretty sure “iuveni” meant “young”?
Oh great, I thought to myself. This was looking like some group of crypto-bros. Was this some part of a new NFT scam?
Then again, if they paid me, who was I to complain? That said, my expectation that this ride would end with me meeting the real L.S. Mercury was dropping by the second.
Well, if they tried to sell me anything, the only money I had in my account now was the deposit they sent me.
The driver didn’t seem particularly shady, but that said, I kept my phone handy for the rest of the ride, checking the GPS to make sure we didn’t head off in any strange direction, and ready to dial 911 if anything suspicious happened.
But, of course, nothing did. Just as expected, we pulled up to a large house in a very nice part of the South Shore.
It was an amazing house. I was used to seeing the big mansions in the nice parts of Western Boston, where the politicians and celebrities lived, but this was on an entirely different level.
The car pulled into a very long driveway leading up from the road. On the way to the house, we passed a stable, complete with horses, and a giant detached garage that appeared to have enough space for a dozen cars.
The house itself seemed unimposing at first glance, a single-story residence, it wasn’t like those gaudy wedding cake mansions in Brookline with fake gothic architecture complete with columns at the entrance. This was a more modern building, but as we got closer I could tell that the size was hidden by the terrain. Beyond the house, the ground sloped down toward the ocean. The house had more levels below what appeared from the road to be the ground level. From close up you could see that the slope concealed lower floors with giant bay windows that certainly offered spectacular views of the sea.
The car pulled to a stop in a large horseshoe driveway. This time the driver hopped out of the car and opened the door for me.
“Here we are! Not bad time, right? I told you. Going against the traffic is not bad. Other direction? That is hell. It’s like a big long parking lot.”
I gathered up all the papers, stepped out of the car, and stretched after the long ride. Even though the seats offered by far the most comfortable ride I could remember, it was nice to stand up again. The weather was perfect. The sun was shining and there was a cool breeze blowing in from the ocean. I took off my mask and put it back into my bag, then took a moment to take it all in.
“I’ll see you again when it’s over. They will call me and I come back, yes?” The driver said, closing her door and walking around to get back in the driver’s seat.
“Uh, sure?” I wasn’t sure if he was telling me or asking a question. I really had no idea. I guess they made arrangements for him to wait nearby so he could take me back. Better than having another driver come all the way down from the city later.
As the car drove back down the driveway, the front door of the residence opened and a tall woman in a dark green dress walked out. She was a living, breathing insecurity nightmare.
Six foot and change feet tall, she was thin, pale, blonde, and gorgeous. She had that Eastern European thing with the eyes, so striking they looked almost painted on. Seeing her walk over to me made me feel like I was back in middle school, face covered with acne, braces, and a Dora the Explorer keychain hanging from my pink backpack. How was this even fair? Real human beings do not look like this.
“You are Samira, right? Oh, but you prefer Samantha? Or Sam?” She spoke with some kind of an accent, but for the life of me, I couldn’t place it. It was like a mix of French and Russian. Maybe Scandinavian? All I could do was nod like an idiot.
Wait a second. Did I mention that anywhere in my correspondence? I had wanted to use Samantha on my KwikJobs account, but they have this policy about requiring your legal name. Actually, I had wanted to just use Sam, hoping I might be able to get more jobs with a male name.
Things were getting away from me. The fancy car, this amazing house, A European supermodel greeting me at the door. This was so not my life.
“Come in! It must have been a long drive. Thank you so much for coming on such short notice. We were lost when the original interviewer had to pull out. It would have been a disaster if we didn’t get everything ready in time. I can’t tell you how happy we are that you were able to accommodate us on such short notice.”
As she ushered me through the front door I had to question what kind of being can walk so smoothly on heels that high. There was no way we were from the same species.
“Please call me Elise, I’m here to help with anything you might need. Oh! Watch your step!”
The house looked nice from the outside, but after taking just one step past the front door, it was everything I could do to not freak out about what was hiding inside the entrance.
A giant marble staircase came directly up to a landing around the doorway and led down into a cavernous room. It looked more like a five-star hotel lobby. The giant room was open all the way to the far wall, where a two-story high wall-to-wall window looked out to the beach. Down the hill outside could see a small dock protruding into the water where a large yacht was moored.
The walls on both sides of the room were completely covered in bookshelves. The center of the room had sofas and lounges surrounding an actual fire-pit. A real, honest-to-God fire-pit, inside the living room. I had no idea how that even worked.
I tried to get down the stairs in a dignified manner, but to be sure, I was sure I looked like a giraffe learning to walk as I gawked at the sheer magnificence of the room. Meanwhile, Elise glided smoothly along with me as we descended to the main floor. How did she move like that, in those shoes?
“It’s quite amazing, isn’t it? No matter how many times I see it. I’ve heard that in the morning, when the sun rises over the sea, this room is filled with beautiful golden light. It must be quite inspiring.”
I tried to take in everything. As my eyes scanned the walls covered in books, Elise followed my gaze.
“The library is impressive too, is it not? Over ten thousand books in this room alone.”
“There’s more?” I croaked, immediately self-conscious of how rough and uneducated my voice was compared to the fairy-born siren voice of the woman in front of me.
“Oh yes! There are more rooms full of books. These are just the ones that Mr. Mercury likes the most. Now, would you like to have a seat?” Elise gestured to one of the sofas by the firepit.
“You must be thirsty. Would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea, juice?”
I would have loved a coffee now, but I was so intimidated at this point I immediately just blurted out “Uh, anything is fine,” without even thinking.
As I sat down on one of the sofas and put my bag on the floor, Elise slid through a doorway near the windows that I hadn’t even noticed. Within seconds she was back with a tray. She placed the tray on a small table and picked up a beautiful crystal drinking glass.
“Would you like ice?” She asked and I noticed the small ice bucket next to a chilled pitcher on the tray.
“Uh, no. Just water is good.” I said. Why does everything I say sound so stupid?
She smiled as she filled the glass to just below the brim, then placed it gracefully on a coaster on the table, in front of me. Then she sat down on the opposite sofa as I picked up the water and took a sip.
I’m sure my body thought that the water was some kind of Ambrosia, considering the experience so far, but to be honest my brain was not keeping up well with everything so I have no idea. After I took the sip, I placed the glass back carefully on the coaster, positive that the glass alone probably cost more than everything I had in my entire apartment.
Elise smiled at me and began her explanation.
“As I said before, we are very grateful you could come here on such short notice. We planned to have this interview be part of the big Chapter 2,500 Celebration next month, so you can understand that every detail needs to be checked and double-checked and we have so little time.”
Elise took a deep breath, then let out a short sigh.
“It’s been so crazy. The interview was originally going to be done by a good friend of Mr. Mercury, but unfortunately, Mr. Herman had an accident a couple of weeks ago and won’t be able to meet the deadline.”
That bit of information pinged some free-floating data in the back of my mind.
“Mr Herman… Do you mean Paul Herman?” A moment of clarity hit me as I recalled reading a news update of the writer having a accident while rafting in Colorado. Elise smiled and nodded.
“Oh! Do you know Mr. Herman?”
“Know him? Paul Herman? The literature reviewer for the New York Herald?”
“Yes! That’s him.”
“The Columbia Prize-winning writer? That Paul Herman?”
Elise smiled again.
“Ah, and you are wondering why we have called you in to substitute for an award-winning, world-renowned writer?”
“Pwah! Yeah. Of course yes. I mean. How can I? Paul Herman? L.S. Mercury. What… I mean… How?” I was blubbering. I think a neuron had finally connected the freelance writing gig I signed up for with the insane environment I had stepped into.
I admit, I did not handle things with much poise and dignity.
Elise gave me a kind smile, then moved over to sit on the sofa beside me. She picked up the glass and handed it back to me.
“Here, take another sip. Take a deep breath. Everything is going to be fine. That’s what I am here for. To make sure everything works out.”
I took the glass and took another sip of water. I felt a bit better. I took another sip. Again, a bit better. I was about to take another one when I had a sudden thought about having to ask to use the restroom and almost had another panic attack. I handed the glass back to Elise, who placed it back on the coaster.
“Look, I know it may be a lot to take in. But trust me, you will be just fine.”
Hearing this walking, talking Disney princess try to comfort me had the mixed effect of feeling both reassuring and condescending.
“Would you believe that I have worked for Mr. Mercury for over eight years, and this is only the third time I have been to this house? Do you know how intimidated I am feeling now too?”
Wait, what? She was intimidated? Was she being serious?
“What is it you do? I mean what is your job?” I asked. Trying to figure out whether Elise was kind or just messing with me.
“I am Mr. Mercury’s personal assistant. Well, one of them. There are three of us, working in shifts so we can be available 24 hours a day.”
His personal assistant? And this was the third time in eight years she had come here? How was that even possible?
She must have sensed my confusion.
“Yes, you must know that Mr. Mercury is a very private man. He does not meet people. Ever. Even I have never met him in person. We only talk over the telephone or via email. This is a very special event which required my presence here in person. I flew in last night just to be here.”
“Wait, what?” Oh shit, I said it out loud this time.
Elise giggled. She even giggled like a supermodel. How was this real?
“Really, you don’t believe me? It’s true. Even when I have been here before, I am not allowed to go into the sections of the house that Mr. Mercury is occupying. This room,” She gestured around us, “He never comes in here. It was built to entertain guests that come to visit, but in the entire time I have worked here, the only one who has ever been allowed to meet Mr. Mercury face to face is the CEO, Mr. Dolios.”
“That’s Engel Dolios?” I asked, finally kicking my journalistic brain to wake up.
“Yes, He has known Mr. Mercury for many, many years. He is the only one allowed to move freely through the property.”
This wasn’t adding up, or if it was, it was painting a very strange picture. But the big question was how did I fit into it.
“If no one meets him, why am I even here?”
“Well, that is the million-dollar question. After all, we submitted dozens of replacement writers to Mr. Mercury for this interview and he rejected them all. That is until we sent him your file.”
I just sat there, blinking like an idiot.
L.S. Mercury, Lukas Anderson himself, chose me? Personally? That can’t be true. How does that make any sense?
“You are saying that he-“
“Personally selected you from some of the best writers in the world, after reading your work.”
Elise was still smiling, but I couldn’t believe what was happening. Not even a dream could be this fantastical.
“I know how you must feel right now. I was the same when I was first offered this job. The chance to work for Mr. Mercury. It was beyond any hope I ever had in my most childish fantasies. But despite his eccentricities, or perhaps because of them, this has been the greatest experience I could have ever imagined. You might expect someone like him to be focused entirely on his work, but you can’t imagine.”
Elise stood and walked over to one of the bookshelves.
“All these books, but not a single one of his books is here. These are all the books he has read and enjoyed. He watches the world, studies every detail, and understands things that I could never fathom in my entire life.”
She walked along the books, then looking at the titles, found one, and pulled it off the shelf. She came over and handed me the book.
“He read what you wrote and picked you. A man who may know more about the human condition than anyone who has ever lived. He asked you to come and speak with him. Isn’t that a great honor?”
I looked down at the book in my hands.
> The Devil Devine
>
> By Arman Nazeri
How? My heart was caught in my throat. How could this book be here?
I stared at Elise, desperate for an explanation that made sense.
“I don’t know what Mr. Mercury thought about your father’s book. Only that he added it to this library of his favorite works years before you were born. I don’t know what he saw in your writing that made him offer you this chance, but I have no doubt whatsoever that you deserve to be here, above all the other candidates.”
I clutched the precious book in my hands. Long before he had been killed in that senseless accident, before he had taken that job as a geographical surveyor, abandoning his dream of becoming a professional writer, even before I was born, I knew the stories of the book he had written while in graduate school. The book that had done so poorly that nearly every copy had been unsold, and destroyed so the publisher could write off the disaster.
This was the first bound copy of the book I had ever seen. I still keep a hand-typed original manuscript as one of my treasures. I had read it countless times. It was the thread that connected me to my father and drove me to follow my own dream.
But holding this book in my hands… The color of the cover and the texture of the spine. Never in a million years would I have expected to encounter a treasure like this today.
“In all those years since I took this job, I have felt many different emotions; fear, and happiness, frustration, and wonder. There is one emotion however that I have never had the need to experience. That is until today.” Elise said with a strange look on her face.
I looked up at her, not understanding.
“Jealousy. Every day I have worked for Mr. Mercury has been a dream beyond my wildest hopes. But for the first time, I am going to help someone do something that has always been denied to me. So I hope you forgive me if I hate you, just a little bit.” She said with a wink.
“What-“
“You are going to meet him. The real Mr. Mercury. He wants this interview to be in person. Lucas Anderson wants to meet you.”
I nearly dropped the book.
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I walked out of the house and across the lawn. Elise had coached me on the rules. No phone or electronic devices of any kind. No cameras. Just a notepad and pen.
I could not reach out to him or touch him. I must keep a respectful distance at all times.
The interview will last as long as he stays with me on the beach. Once he retires back to the house, the interview was over and I would be given a ride back to Boston.
I would have one week to draft an article that can be used with the promotional materials for the big 2,500 chapter celebration. Once the article was approved I would be paid the remainder of the commission.
All in all, it was not the strangest condition I had ever heard of. Considering the situation, however, I was surprised it was so straightforward. Every step along this path so far has been filled with unbelievable things. It was almost anti-climactic to start into the actual work.
I walked along the shoreline until I came to a small tent set up just off the sand. Inside I could see a table and some beach chairs, one of which was occupied by a figure. It was him. His features were covered up by a large bucket hat and sunglasses.
Steeling my nerves, I walked up to the tent and was about to say something when the man in the chair suddenly jumped up and walked straight to me. He took off the hat and sunglasses and smiled at me.
No way.
This was a joke. There was no way this…
I felt a quick flash of anger. Then confusion. Then a lot more confusion.
What was going on?
I stared at the man, who was now extending his hand towards me.
This was not Lucas Anderson. It could not be him. This man had light brown hair, a thin build, and couldn’t be older than his mid-30s. I studied his face and it was identical to the man in the photos that I had printed out. How was this possible? Was this his son? Who was this? Lucas Anderson was 76 years old.
What kind of sick, twisted joke was going on here?
“Hi! You must be Sam. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I’m Lucas Anderson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.
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