VH | Only Crew.

The world was tired.Sometime in winter. The Calfera Gardens stood still. Bone cold air, dry dusk. A barely visible kind of thin soot covered the ice and snow. Unfaded blue Synthas and other white flowers swayed in perfect nano-governed symmetry against a blank white plate of post-suburban landscape. Calfera Drive gripped the residential lines of sparse, high gaunt trees scraping light from a canopy of dark clouds vaulted above. Bare limbs of tall white oaks meandered in the air slowly breathing threads of wind like flies swatted by a newspaper. Pockets of scorched black ground seeped through holes in the melting snow. As one approached the house. The house. Home.

Dr. Damiand’s front door cried a defiant red.

Enormous bay windows came jutting over an excess part of the driveway like a steamship’s bow hanging over a dock...