It was another beautiful, sunny summer morning in the city. Already the white button-down shirt clung to Wren’s back and the jeans he wore felt too heavy and warm for the day, as though they weighed twenty pounds or more.
Wren noticed all these things because he felt like he was on a precipice, a line of demarcation, that his life was about to change from one phase to the next. His conscious mind told him that the lunch appointment he had set up with Dave was nothing more than two guys getting together for a bite to eat and to talk. That same voice nattered on about how nothing would change unless Wren wanted it to and that he—or his soul—was in no danger by meeting with the redoubtable Mr. Chillingsworth.