May 25, 20—
Conclave, Pennsylvania, next to Lake Erie
No. No. No, Teddy Rockenmoff thought. The circles aren’t real. They can’t be real. At five in the morning he stood at the edge of his porch with his hands in his pockets and stared into the May day, shaking his head in slow motion. His heart thudded within the cave of his chest and sweat formed on his forehead and cheeks. His left eye twitched, but that felt normal; it had done that ever since he was a little boy. He wasn’t a little boy anymore, though. His driver’s license stated his age at thirty-three. Those in Conclave knew that he was a serious farmer and business savvy. He knew how to grow wheat, when to harvest the crop, and who exactly to sell it to. Teddy wasn’t starving by any means, but he wasn’t a millionaire, either.
Kil
