I just finished eating my fairly Spartan dinner of Dinty Moore beef stew and rice. Rinsed the bowl and put it in the sink. Sat back down at the kitchen table, book still in hand, head still in the story. Pushed my chair back and rested my left ankle on my right knee as I sat back.

I awake to the cacophony of pans hitting Formica. He is cooking breakfast again. The kind of breakfast that you eat and eat until you’re so full, you feel like your esophagus rests on a pillow of eggs and ham.

“I’m worried about you.”

She appeared at my office instead of worrying over the phone. I knew something was different when I buzzed her up.

My father was a renowned wine maker in California. Everyone knew him, everyone loved him, he had such a buzz about him, he drew people in, he commanded attention. I did not. I was a bit of a screw-up, I spent half of my college and early adult years showing off my bravado and trying [...]

The rules dictated that he go to California. It had been two long weeks since the mysterious list of commands had slid under his door, and he was no closer to discovering the meaning of life as promised by what he had come to call “the List”.