The Red Pander Chronicles

The Pact and the Prodigal, Part 1 April, 1940

Outside a cold wind whistled, having not heard or cared that it was springtime at all, much less that it was quite suddenly April.

It blew as if to remind the bustling city of humans

that they could print as many almanacs as they liked.

The weather would do what the weather would do,

as it was in the beginning and would be in the end whenever that came.

Up and down the length of DuPont Street,

people swore quietly under their breath,

pulled up their collars, and leaned

into the bitter wind. Nothing to be done but wait and hope. In this as in all things.

Unlike his neighbors, Dodsworth Anders took no note of the wind. It whistled and howled,

but his ears were not what they used to be, and the constant drone outside barely registered.

He was safely ensconced in his rooms, which were lined with books of every kind.

Let the wind howl if that was what it wanted to do.

He had his books and enough light to read them by.

In another hour he might get up and boil the kettle,

but then again he might not. The world was his oyster, in the way that only a very old man can

ever know. There were no expectations upon him, no load to bear, and on most days there was

no one to note his presence in the least.

Not everyone's cup of tea, but after a long and act of life, it was a retirement on Anders' terms.

He turned the page and found to his own surprise that he remembered almost nothing of what he had just read.

...