Nine years ago. A car speeds towards a large compound surrounded by a stone wall, with a guard at the gate. Someone inside car exclaims, "WE'RE HERE!" Where "here" is turns out to be the Urquhart Clinic, as indicated by a large sign with the compound's name and logo: an open palm, the "U" making up the middle two fingers and the "C" making up the palm itself.
A young boy, about eight years old, presses his face against the passenger seat window. He has short, scruffy, blonde hair and a huge grin. "Mum, look!" he says.
His mum, who is driving, glances over at him. "I see it, Vic," she says wearily. "It's hard to miss. Sit down, please."
They pull up to the guard at the gate, who puts his hand on the car roof and bends down to look into the boy's open window. He is wearing an all navy uniform, with a teal armband and a helmet that covers his eyes. "Can I help you?" he says. "I'm here to drop off my son," replies the mother. "Name?" "Bethany Brookley."
"I meant the kid," the guard says shortly. "O-oh. Victor Allen," Bethany says. Victor smiles at her innocently. "I'm going to need to see some ID," says the guard.
End of page.