4338.205 · July 24, 2018 AD
Strangers at the Threshold
Eight boxes of military-grade tent. The man who answers wears damp shorts and nothing else, juggling yapping Shih Tzus while chaos erupts around a delivery manifest. Joel sees wealth, order, a life he'll never have. Luke sees a young driver with unsettlingly familiar eyes. Neither knows that Jamie Greyson connects them both—father to one, partner to the other. The delivery takes five minutes. Its echo will last far longer.
Berriedale is north of the city, up where houses cost half a million and problems feel different. Joel finds the address without trouble—brick veneer, neat garden, the kind of place where bins match and neighbours know each other's names. The order is massive: eight boxes of tent, borderline military grade. What does someone need with this much canvas?
The man who answers is tall, dark-haired, distracted. Damp shorts cling to his hips. A Shih Tzu wriggles in his arms while another darts between his feet. Before Joel can hand over the manifest, one dog snatches it; the other steals it mid-air and bolts. Duke! Henri! Naughty!
From Joel's view: a glimpse of impossible wealth, an eighty-inch television, a kitchen that probably cost more than his car. The quiet judgement of someone who has everything he doesn't.
From Luke's view: a young man with piercing blue eyes and a voice too deep for his age. Something familiar in his face—something that unsettles without explanation. He really is just like Jamie.
The signature is scrawled. The door closes. Joel drives away thinking about fathers and houses and lives he'll never have.
He doesn't know he just stood at Jamie Greyson's door.
