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some film editing equipment along with a manual that detailed the basics of editing. He helped me complete a few of my projects.
    As we reviewed one of my movies, I asked him, “Dad, do you think I could become a filmmaker when I grow up?”
    “You’re already a filmmaker,” he said.
    “I mean when I get older. Do you think I could get a job making movies?”
    “Certainly. If you’re committed enough, you can do anything. You’ll have to give it everything you’ve got. Are you willing to put forth the effort?”
    I pondered that. “It’s the only job I can imagine wanting. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
    “Then you shall surely rise to prominence as an auteur.”
    “What’s an ‘auteur’?”
    “It’s a fancy word for filmmaker. Throw that one around and nobody’ll have a clue what you’re talking about. But you’ll sound smart – which is more than half the battle.”
    His confidence in me relieved all doubts. I set my aspirations on the movie business.
    My high school years were a breeze. I was a good student, not great. Thanks to my brother’s expulsions from multiple schools, I faced no pressure academically. I sailed under the radar until graduation.
    By the time I left home for film school, Hagen’s recklessness was peaking. He was already dabbling in alcohol and harder drugs; I didn’t notice. Never close to him, I did not care what he did. Nor did my relationship with my mother concern me much. She was too preoccupied with fixing Hagen. I valued the bond with my father, however. He was the only one I would miss after I moved out.
    During my second semester at film school, Hagen left my parents’ house one day and did not return. He was fourteen. My parents spent a year unsuccessfully attempting to track him down. They surrendered all hope of finding him. His disappearance plunged my mother into a depression from which she arguably never recovered.
    My brother had likely gotten himself killed, I figured. That possibility cost me no sleep. Yet Hagen was not dead. He would resurface at a pivotal juncture – barely recognizable.
    ****
    On the second anniversary of Lorna’s evaporation, I received a phone call from a friend named Cranston Gage. I had first met Cranston through Lorna. He was a schoolteacher and fellow underground radical.
    “I’ll make this short and sweet. I don’t need to explain why,” he said, hinting at the government’s monitoring of electronic communications. “This day is very sorrowful to everyone who knew her. I wish she was still around. My condolences to you.”
    “Thanks. That means a lot.”
    “Hang in there. She was – well, it’s best not to state too much. The world is worse off without her.” He deliberately avoided uttering Lorna’s name.
    “True. But wouldn’t she want us to stay positive in her absence?”
    “No doubt. I’ll have to remember that. Thanks.”
    Just as that call with Cranston ended, a mix of Gregorian chant and psychedelia erupted in my ears. The volume reached a mind-numbing crescendo. I recalled my session with Lukas Lambert, the parallel universalist, over two and a half years earlier. That memory briefly cast me into a blue blur that nullified my perceptions. Ordinary consciousness returned:
    Where was I? When was I? Looking around I realized that I was in a ramshackle tavern that complied with exactly none of the statutes regulating such establishments. The walls were black, the floors were white, and the waitresses wore outfits that suggested unwholesome extracurriculars. A honky-tonk tune played low on a jukebox in the back. Most of the small tables in the room were unoccupied. About fifteen patrons clustered around the main bar where I was seated. Loud and repugnant in their drunkenness, they were almost falling off their stools. I decided to keep to myself.
    “I knew your brother way back when, man,” said a slurred voice to my left.
    I turned. Sitting beside me was the slightly familiar Lawrence Alister. His hair was