Shortly after the dragging started it stopped. A dark colored sack or a bag was pulled over Adrian’s head by strong fingers that moved quickly and nimbly. It made him feel extremely claustrophobic to have the net pressed against his face. One strand of string was pulling awkwardly against his nose. The person who had been dragging him let go and dropped his head, which bounced painfully and with a sick smack that Adrian was certain was very audible. The dragging resumed, two hands with powerful grips cupped under Adrian’s armpits from behind and started pulling. His ass was scooting along, and Adrian tried to favor his right side while attempting to convey to this person that what he was doing hurt Adrian so badly that it felt much more like a ripping sensation than anything else. All that came out was mumbled mush, mania stealing sensible words. Whether they were listening or not, the person abducting him did not seem to care about his immediate well being. They crossed a bump in the floor as the abductor made a series of quick turns. First right, then right again, and then a left turn. On this left turn Adrian hit the bump with minimal effect to his injuries other than a freshening of the pain, and felt the floor transition from smooth, cold tile to the rough bristle of carpet.

Now as he was hauled along the floor there was a constant, soft scraping noise. As if someone was gently shushing him the whole way, until Adrian was hoisted and left in a position that was vaguely like sitting. The chair he was in had sides, he could feel, and arm rests. It's seat was well cushioned; all things considered it was rather comfortable. There was a soft padding that was leading away, Adrian recognized it as footsteps. Something wooden creaked, and then there was the sound of dragging again. Moments later it stopped, but not before Adrian recognized that whatever was happening, it was being brought to him.

His heart leapt upward and out of his chest and plummeted back down at every pass of its pulse. There was a moment where Adrian felt genuine terror, the kind that overwhelmed thoughts, and the familiar sensation of a churning stomach was developing. His throat dried as his mouth watered with excess saliva. Not a man of faith, Adrian had an urgent thought: Lord above, do not let me puke inside of this net and bag.

And as swiftly and shockingly as it all began, it all grew too silent. All that Adrian could see was black. He couldn't even define the criss-cross pattern of the net lying on his face. The silence and time passing brought the realization that, throughout this ordeal, Adrian had given up struggling, had barely bothered to reason with this person. Or to speak at all.

“Listen. Whoever… listen. Just listen, ok? There is no… no need for this. Ok? I-I-I just came by to look for help. I-I-I-I don't mean you any harm. I don't want your hotel. Let me go, please.” Adrian let his words fall heavy, each one a thought out decision that needed to fight through a sturdy wall of nerves to escape his lips. The silence after them was an extra, suffocating layer that tightened over Adrian with every passing second. Soon half of a minute had passed with no response, and it was beginning to be hard to sit still. His fingers wanted to twitch and clench, his back and shoulders wanted to squirm. There wasn't a moment in Adrian’s life that he had ever felt more claustrophobic, a fear that he didn't think that he had owned. To fill the silence, or maybe to distract the itch that was the need to move, he spoke again.

“I know you're there. Take this mask off of me, p-please.” There was a slight echo when he talked that added to the fearful atmosphere provided for him.

“Is it… do you… do you want my things? My supplies? Listen, I don't have much. It's yours. It's out there in the car I drove here.” Adrian paused again, but there was still no response, so he tried to fill the silent void again. “I've got… food, a bit of food. There-there-there’s… um… water. I have a lot of water. The tank is half full, too. Just let me go and I'll walk away!”

He grew more frantic as he talked, his voice started out stuttered and quick but the last statement was crystal clear and hard. It didn't sound like a plea as much as it sounded like a desperate reminder that this was all a decision that could be undone at a moment's notice.

Adrian offered his belongings, everything he owned, as if they were a night’s worth of gambling chips. If he got to leave this resort, he knew he would need more than luck. He hoped that within his small store of supplies there would be what he needed.

The silence was stretching. Adrian was surprised at how quickly this setup was bringing him to madness. The nothingness in the black that he saw met the nothingness in the silence around him with warm gestures. If not for the physical ability to feel the smooth wood of the armrest, Adrian thought he could have quickly lost touch with reality. He spoke again, now to confirm with himself that he was there, this was happening, and it was not a dream.

“I have a dog. A pet. Kevin. I f-f-found him, and he's hurt. He's depending on me, I need to help him.” But within himself Adrian was already resigning. Resigning to whoever had him trapped and whatever they would do. What would happen next? The thought immediately followed his spoken words. Should I say something else? Nothing is happening, but-

The thought was cut off by someone clearing phlegm from their throat, the sound of someone who had decided to speak. Suddenly, the sack over his head was rolled up, pulled up over his lips. The air was nurturing his clammy skin and the nauseous sensation in his gut.

“Your name.” The voice was stony, dry and low in pitch. It commanded authority without using volume or specific tone. Adrian wasn't asked for his name, but was offered the opportunity to provide it. Just the sound of this voice against the dead silence inspired fear. There was age to it, but it aged with qualities like a good whiskey was supposed to, with strength and vitality and darkness. Adrian could imagine hearing this person narrate a documentary about haunted houses or serial killers.

“Aid… Adrian. My name is Adrian.” His own voice sounded weak in comparison. Shrill and frail, filled with stutters, but more clear now that his mouth wasn't muffled.

“Hmmmm,” came the response. Although Adrian couldn't decipher if the man was contemplating his answer or acknowledging what he had said. Oddly, now that the man was talking, Adrian couldn't think of what to say. The flow of words that ran like a river, briefly dammed while being dragged, was now bone dry. Nervously he fidgeted in his seat, the anxiety a live wire inside of him.

“Hmmmm,” he said once more, letting a noisy puff of air out of his nostrils as he did.

“Hm, hmm, hmmmm,” as if he just ate something rather tasty. Each “hmm” was being pronounced sharply.

“Adrian,” he tested the word. He repeated it again, sounding the syllables out as if they were a new food he was about to sample.

“Ai-dree-in," he said it phonetically.

And then more quiet. It was not a peaceful quiet but one filled with dread and suspense. Adrian could hear only his own breath as it left his nose and hit the boundaries of the bag he was wearing, heating his face.

It was hard to know what to think right now. Adrian was overcome with shock, the madness of the situation not giving him access to his proper flow of his thoughts. He felt like he was watching a movie, waiting for the events to portray themselves.

At the same time he was afraid. His vision shrouded, all around his personal space felt like the walls of a battered home in a particularly strong storm. He felt prone. Prone to danger. As if at any moment this person could drag him some more, or do worse.

“Adrian. Tell me who you are.” His voice was mesmerizing, Adrian found. It sounded grandfatherly yet it was too stern, too healthy to be quite so old and sweet.

“I… sir, I don't understand. My name is Adrian.” he said blindly. What did this strange man want? He knew who he was, Adrian had told him already, it was Adrian who didn't know things right now. It crossed his mind to ask who it was that was speaking, but before the courage arrived the man before him spoke again.

“No. Adrian is your name. Tell me who you are.” he said firmly. A hint of… anger, or agitation lay in that tone. The terrible part now is that Adrian still didn't know what he meant. Did he want a life story? Did he want to know if Adrian was a good person, the kind of guy to stop and pick up a dropped belonging or return a lost wallet? Or did he want to know who Adrian was before the apocalypse began? A banquets manager back in West Virginia who had the guilt of murdering his own girlfriend.

“My name is Adrian Shepherd. I'm from West Virginia but I came here when I learned about the bombs, a week or so before the attacks. Ever since I got here, I've been living in someone else's abandoned house a little bit up the Pacific Coast Highway from Santa Monica. I've been holed up in there until recently when my building was marked to be looted. I packed my things and my dog and drove, this was where I stopped.”

He realized that he had started to ramble. Another realization came: as brief as it was, this was the first time he had said any of his experiences out loud. To another person. When the words left his lips he felt them leave the heavy burden he carried, as well. As if acknowledging it broke the tension. It felt surprisingly good. A thin, barely audible but certainly noticeable sigh was pushed out. A simple huff and heave of the upper body. Adrian thought there would be an even greater hesitation before one of them spoke, but the man came back promptly.

“You learned of the bombing before it happened? And you say there was more than the one?” Adrian was caught off guard, it wasn't the question he expected. Everyone alive in America must have known about the bombs, why would this person focus on that instead of the man he was interrogating?

And… oh, of course. Of course not everyone would know that the initial disaster was more than one bomb. Adrian considered for the first time that he might be one of the few remaining people who know that fact.

“Yes. There were seven of them. I saw the plans, a warning, a little bit before it all happened. About a week before. It's how I knew to drive toward Santa Monica.” Adrian replied. The images on the agent's phone still as clear as if it was in his hands now.

“So, it's true. It's all of America, then. It must be.” came the utterly let down voice of this stranger. A hollow sorrow resonated in those chords. “I should have expected it, but it still pains me to have these suspicions confirmed. Why else wouldn't the government have fixed this by now?” he muttered something else that Adrian couldn't decipher and then momentarily placed a palm to his forehead.

And then the silence. It came crawling back like cold frost growing on a window pane, and it overwhelmed him with a similar icy grip. Adrian wondered if it was his turn, if he was supposed to talk. Truth be told, Adrian wasn't sure how the structure of a conversation worked any more. He remembered countless, endless, mind numbing conversations at work. At the grocery store. At home. On the street. There never seemed to be any effort with those, the memories brought back a supposed ease Adrian once had with talking. What was he supposed to do now? Ask for his name? The very notion of that seemed like insanity, but so didn't this man asking Adrian for his. So didn't any of this.

Adrian ran out of time again, the man piped up.

“Who are you here with, Adrian? Who joined this road trip of yours?” it was such a casual statement. One Adrian could have made, and probably did, while working at the hotel back in West Virginia. But it was out of place here. It didn't fit in with the net draped over Adrian’s body or the environment of two chairs, two strangers in a mysterious room.

“Uh… I drove here alone. I'm not here with anyone.”

“Except for Kevin.”

“N-no, I picked Kevin up here in Santa Monica. Two days ago. No, three.”

At this the man made a thinking “hmm” noise, and then the noiseless curtain fell again. A few seconds passed, and it had been a long time since Adrian was sat down. The literal pain in his ass was being a metaphorical pain in his ass. He twitched, shifted and then moved his hand to adjust his pants. A small attempt at relief, really.

Adrian felt the warmth of his hand, first. Next it was the strength of his grip on his wrist. He hadn't heard the man stand or move, but here he was, grabbing Adrian’s arm. Eyes weren't necessary to know that he was at a physical disadvantage.

The grip hardened, Adrian’s arm was pulled back slowly. He had put his hand under his waistband to fidget with the bandage, hoping to align his body and the injury in a way that stopped this chair from driving wooden edges into it. When his last fingertip left the confines of his pants the pulling stopped abruptly. The air around his hand felt cool.

“You're bleeding.” came the voice. Still as unsurprised, unquestioning and unconcerned as it had been. As casual as the blood on Adrian’s fingers was mentioned, he might have as well been pointing out his untied shoes or undone zipper on his jeans.

“I was shot the other day,” it felt like an insane lie to say it. He had been shot. Simple Adrian, who had never so much as shaken a stick at someone while having violent intentions. The gun he saw yesterday had been the first gun he had ever seen.

“Before, during, or after you met Kevin?” it was the first time Adrian detected curiosity, and the thought that came to him was a primal reaction. I might not die today. He sucked in a breath of cool air and blew it back out of his mouth. One instant after he tried to cautiously regain control of his arm, Adrian was reprimanded. The man twisted his wrist until a sharp snap of pain arose, riding his arm all of the way up to his elbow. All of the bleeding and suffering from his gunshot wound was temporarily forgotten.

“You are not to move unless I say so, Adrian. You have invaded my home, been captured, and currently are my prisoner. Although I lack the shackles, never lose the focus of what this is. This is the classic prisoner and sheriff scene in the movie. The one where they talk and try to strike a bargain. So, do you want to strike a bargain?”

With every word there was a small blast of air bouncing off of the sack on Adrian’s head, signifying just how close the man had gotten. Adrian, lacking the eyesight to see it for himself, imagined his captors appearance. He saw a grim, stubbled face that featured wrinkles like a statue features blemishes. A black cowboys hat sat ridiculously upon his brow, where a long mane of jet black hair descended. He had donned a black jean jacket with a dark colored undershirt that rested comfortably on a large physique, tucked into well fitted jeans that featured a black leather belt. The man was fear, and despair, and pain.

“Yes. I do.” Adrian said meekly.

“Then tell me. Were you shot before, during, or after you met Kevin?” the curiosity was gone, his tone was all business again.

“I was shot after I met Kevin. I found him... he was… he was bleeding, so I brought him back to the house I've been living in. The next day I went out for supplies. I went back in to Santa Monica, the first time since I drove through it eight months ago. There, in a grocery store, I was shot by a drunk.” It came out quickly, scattered and shaky. Adrian hoped the man wouldn't be able to detect the lie he had told. A gut feeling had told him that declaring himself as Kevin's attacker wouldn't be perceived how Adrian needed it to be perceived.

Another expanse of quiet time passed, and then the man let go of his grip. The thick fingers were like constricting ropes being pulled off, and Adrian was certain that there were imprinted finger grooves on his skin, where the blood was now flowing back in.

“My name is George. George Christopher Barnes.” Adrian wasn't sure, but thought that George might be waiting for a response.

“The pleasure is mine.” He squeaked. An attempt at a joke, ruined by a display of anxiety. The joke obviously didn't land well, either. Other than the sounds of George settling back in to his own chair, there was no response.

“Your mistake,” he began, “was going back into Santa Monica. It has become a festering hole for criminals and idiots.” he stopped to audibly take a couple swallows of something. Adrian imagined it was water and became aware of how parched he was himself. He stopped himself from licking his lips to moisten them.

“You would have gone up, further north a few klicks I imagine, and found small convenience stores. Abandoned houses. Community halls that sheltered civilians early on. Are there no boats up that way? There are prime fishing spots if you are someone eager to look for them.”

Again, another lapse in their conversation. Was he supposed to respond? What was the appropriate thing to say? Adrian’s mind kept drawing blanks, and his jaw went slack. He stayed silent.

“What is your full name?” George asked in an investigative way, not one that supported curiosity or amiability.

“It's, uh, it's Adrian Conrad Shepherd.” and the reaction went about as well as he could have expected.

“Son, there is no need in lying. There is nothing I can do with your identity beside ponder it. What is your real surname?” between the lines George was heavily laying hints to Adrian that he should cut the bullshit.

“That's it. Really. It's Adrian Shepherd, Shepherd is my real last name.” he spat out quickly. He only realized he was cringing away when he felt his muscles protest the straining they were doing.

“No shit?” George said uncharacteristically, “still have your license? I have to say it is a little hard to believe.”

“My what?” Adrian hadn't thought of his wallet or its contents in months. He had left it back somewhere in the Croteau’s, he thought.

“Your license. Your driver's license. Your identification card.” he spelled it out as if he was tutoring Adrian, not as if he was belittling him or speaking to a child. Adrian couldn't quite place a finger on what kind of person this George Barnes was.

“Oh… no. I set my wallet down a long time ago and haven't picked it up since.”

More silence. It ticked on. Soon a full minute had passed without it breaking. Then two. Adrian estimated it had been ten, maybe fifteen minutes since he lost his sight. The flares of hot pain in his hip was now a constant torrent of fire, but he didn't dare complain over it.

“Alright. We will call you Adrian Shepherd, if that is how you will have it.” Adrian thought about stubbornly retorting about his honesty, but George carried on.

“Tell me about the injuries you have. And Kevin, his too.”

It was becoming too much. George had all of the cards in his hands, but Adrian wasn't even sure of what game they were playing. He didn't think that he would last another five minutes being blinded and unable to move, all of the while enduring the pain of jagged wood piercing the hole left by a bullet.

“Listen. You've got to take this bag off of my head and let me adjust my hip,” Adrian didn't want to show his desperation, but he added: “please.”

He heard in response a chortle. It was by what Adrian’s mind defined a chortle, and it might have been the first time he had heard anyone chortle. It would have been repetitive puffs of air had it not had a low, resonating hum to each puff.

And then there was a dim light. George had pulled the bag (and now Adrian could see it truly was a random cloth-material bag) off of his head and revealed a large, vast banquet hall. Immediately he knew it was a banquet hall, despite there only being the two lavishly decorated wooden chairs that they sat on, and two long tables tilted to lean against the wall by the main double doors that Adrian deduced they had entered from.

“Go ahead. Tell me about your injuries.” Adrian could see, now, that his earlier depiction of George had been all wrong. He looked gentle. This was a man you would see coaching a child's soccer team on the weekends. It went so far as to produce a flutter of relief, before he remembered where he was and what George had already said to him.

George Barnes was easily as tall as Adrian with a salt-and-pepper hair-and-beard combo, that contained more salt than pepper. He was unnaturally (for the time they were in) well kept and clean, and it made Adrian wonder how he looked in comparison. Spectacles that hung loosely on his nose had yellowed rims around the glass, and Adrian could see a small crack in the left lens. It ran from the bottom to the top, just to the left of where the eye would predominantly see from. Despite having a full beard he had a strong and definable jaw line that met at a squared chin. His squat, round nose was only matched by his physique. George was barrel-chested, with thick arms. It was the body of a man disciplined from hard work, like chopping wood or laboring heavily on a farm.

“Son, I will not say it again. What hurts, and where?” he spat out before beginning to adjust the collar and sleeve cuffs of his blue-and-white plaid dress shirt. Irritation. Anger. His face was in a scowl, and Adrian wasn't sure yet if it was natural or if it had been set that way recently.

The lighting was dim and easy to adjust to. With every second that passed, details became clearer. He could make out the wall’s decorated chocolate-brown wooden panels that rose a quarter way up the wall before a creamy-yellow vinyl wallpaper took over. The back end of the room, to Adrian’s left, once had two giant windows that overlooked the backside of the resort, but were now covered with sheets of thin wood that had been painted black. George had finished fiddling with his shirt, took a drink from a metallic-silver colored water bottle, and cast a stony, emerald-green eyed stare at Adrian. Adrian noticed his eyes looked alive with electricity, and that his body didn't show that same energy.

“I was shot…” he began.

“You have said that already. Where exactly is the wound, is the bullet lodged inside still or was it a clean puncture, and what has the healing process been like?” he rolled each point off of the tip of a finger as if he was reciting the days chores and errands.

“It's, um… I was shot in my hip. The meaty part of my hip. The bulle-" Adrian was cut off by an abrupt burst of laughter, not at all a chortle but a full-out horselaugh. It nearly scared the shit out of Adrian.

“You-A HA HA HA! You mean to say, son, you were shot in the REAR?!” George actually wiped a tear from his cheek as it rolled down.

“...Yes. I was shot in the ass.” Adrian replied curtly and with humility. In some light, yes, he could see the humor in his situation. But in the ramifications of it he was not prone to partake in its comedic value. George's smile slowly waned from a grin to an uplifted line, and then back down to a resting horizontal line.

“I apologize. There is a lack in entertainment of any form, these days. Please, continue. How long has the bullet been there?”

Adrian wetted his lips and took a moment to readjust his body, taking note of whether or not George would take hold of him again. When he was more comfortable (more accurately, in a position that didn't prod his sensitive wound), he continued.

“It's out. Someone took it out.”

“Someone? Who? Did Kevin take it out?” he chortled again.

“The man who shot me took it out,” and when George's expression went from amused to confused, Adrian added, “it's a long story.”

“We have some time. Please. Tell me about the drunken man who shot you and then stitched you back up.” George piped back, checking and adjusting an imaginary watch. Adrian sighed.

“I went to Santa Monica to get food. Like I said. When I got there, there was a man eating chips in the store’s doorway. I froze. He saw me, and from there things escalated quickly. He shot me when he thought I wanted to raid the store, the store he had just raided himself, and I woke up the next morning to a note. It said that he felt guilty, took the bullet out and cauterized the wound. He was gone when I came to.”

George crossed one ankle over the other leg, forming the space of a triangle in his lap. He scratched his beard as he thought.

“It does make about as much sense as anything else I have seen during the past year. You were lucky, kid.” he motioned with his hand during the last sentence. A playful swatting, a gesture to say “no biggie”.

“And Kevin?” George fixed his shining green eyes in a pointed stare, his eyebrows into a slanting furrow.

“Head-" Adrian paused to cough phlegm from his throat, “a head injury. He had a head injury when I found him, and then I carried him home. The whole time I've had him he's been unconscious, but yesterday he opened an eye.”

Adrian had to pause again. He wasn't initially aware of how emotionally attached he was to Kevin, but now it was starting to become obvious. In his own eye there was a tear to be wiped.

George sat motionlessly for a span of time. Boring green-eyed holes into Adrian, who awkwardly fidgeted, made and turned away eye contact as if it was routine and waited.

“You… found him.” George croaked, and then cocked his head to ask for reassurance.

“Y-yes. I found him. I picked him up and ran two blocks home. I've been force feeding him water, and I crush up multivitamins and put the powder in sometimes. He hasn't ate since.” Adrian was shaking, convulsing with nerves. He hoped it wasn't noticeable. He wasn't a good liar.

“Understood. He is a lucky creature, too, then.” he put both hands on his knees and leaned forward, “I have one last set of questions for you before we get matters underway. What did you come in here, this lonely, off-of-the-path, beaten down resort, for exactly? What were your intentions? And, maybe most importantly, why did you wait the night out?”

Of course he knew I was out there. I had my headlights blaring for minutes. He probably assumed I was staking him out. What does “getting matters underway” mean?

“My house,” he began, “I mean, the house I’ve been staying in was tagged… marked to be looted.”

“How do you know the mark meant that you were to be looted?” George interjected.

“I saw two of the taggers. I overheard them. They more or less said that they use a color-code system to tell each other whether a building is lootable or not.” Adrian’s heart hammered harder at the memory of jamming himself awkwardly in a watercooler box.

“And what were the colors?”

“What?”

“What colors did they use?”

“Why?” Adrian thought this was a trivial question at the moment, it didn’t pertain to himself at all.

“Why won’t you answer?” George cocked his head again, now looking down at Adrian.

“Well… because, wh-why,” Adrian stammered, sighed, and then restarted, “they sprayed a building red if they wanted it to be looted by a couple of guys with a truck. They sprayed it pink if it was looked at and not considered worth their time.”

“Very well. Continue on.” George said without hesitation.

“What?” Adrian said.

“Continue on… you were explaining why you came here?”

“Oh… the place I was staying at was marked. I had been there for months. I stole a car from a neighbor, poured what gas I had left in it and then loaded my belongings in it. And Kevin. Then I drove. By the time I felt safe… I noticed this place.” Adrian had to stop. He had glossed over the lucid memories of Alyssa. George didn’t need to know about her, but having her name that close to the surface again stirred emotions.

“I see.” George said with no tone or emotion. He had used little inflection in his voice at all, aside from the one time he had laughed…

“Tell me the rest. Why wait all night, and then waltz in here with… can I assume you had no plan?” George chortled again.

“I waited because I didn’t want to enter while someone was sleeping. I came in because I have nowhere to go. My only other option was to go back out on the road. You’re right… I’ve had no plan. How could I have planned for this?” Adrian did allow a small bit of hysteria to slip out.

George didn’t respond. The only sound was his tapping foot, that moved to no rhythm at all. Adrian found the continued silence returning unbearable, and could only endure half a minute of anxiety before piping up.

“List-” he began.

“I will be right back, Adrian. Don’t go anywhere.”

And then, as if he was getting up to change the temperature, George stood and left the room without casting a single glance back. Adrian heard the two doors shut, and then the rattle of chains. George is locking me in.

---

George was gone for a total of thirty minutes, and in that time Adrian was obedient. He was told not to go anywhere, and he didn't.

Ever since the bombs had dropped, no, ever since he had learned that the bombs would drop he had been afraid. But it was a general fear, a non-specific fear. A bad feeling in his stomach, as if he was dreading rain to cancel his plan for tomorrow.

But this was a direct, specific fear. It literally had a face. It had intentions, questions. And it had a name. And this made it much harder to turn away from. Now Adrian could imagine the possibilities, and could imagine what might go wrong. The walls were closing in, his unanswered questions coming to clarity.

That is mostly why Adrian didn't move from his seat. Why he didn't bolt through the fire exit at the back wall as soon as George stood, left through the front door and then locked it. After ten minutes of consideration, Adrian decided George had likely planned for something so simple, anyway.

Another reason why he didn't leave was because he didn't know if he didn't trust George. Didn't know if he was a good or bad guy. Adrian had felt like he was being toyed with, slightly, but what if that was just... hazing? An entrance exam?

Why would George ask for his medical condition unless he intended to help? To drive the point home further, why ask about Kevin?

If George wasn’t keen on him being here, why would he let Adrian be here at all?

Adrian had spent the latter fifteen minutes contemplating that. In the end he couldn't think of a proper reason. The whole situation was too unpredictable to latch on to a theory that made any sense. As much as his still being here was a sign of something good, it pointed to other signs as well. What if, for example, George just wanted to know how alone Adrian truly was, and Adrian had delivered himself bow-tied to have whatever fate George could cook up forced upon him?

He was considering that exact question when he heard the metallic scratch of a key in a lock. Chains jangled heavily and then fell, the double doors were pulled open. Behind George the lobby was bright. Brighter than it had been when Adrian entered, and he pondered that for a moment before George slowly made his way to his chair again and spoke. A skylight, maybe?

“Adrian,” he started, displaying a handsome smile, “I would like to invite you to be our guest at The Wandering Sheppard: Resort and Inn.”