Tuesday, December 1st

Some people are lucky enough to have a life where everything happens at the perfect moment—at precisely the right time. They’re laid off the day they accept a new job. They narrowly evade a rainstorm after a trip to the grocery store. Or they just catch that last bus or train. They frequently say things like, “What good timing!” or “You’re right on time.” These fortunate souls are often beneficiaries of serendipity and coincidence and, perhaps, most remarkably tend to be well aware of it. Unfortunately, Martin Reinhold was not one of these people, which explains why surprising his wife with a bright red BMW convertible on Christmas Day would prove so ill-timed.

Martin didn’t know this, of course, especially not while sitting in his kitchen, admiring a high-definition image of a shiny new vehicle. And that might explain why, after removing his tortoise-shell reading glasses, he shook his head and muttered in a self-congratulatory tone, “She’s gonna love this car.”

You, the reader, would be forgiven for presuming Martin was speaking to himself, but he was talking to you.

“More or less,” continued Martin. “But while we’re still here on the first few pages of the book, you should know that I don’t hear everything the narrator says. He can make me do all sorts of stuff, sure, but I don’t always hear him. If I could... Well, it would probably give me a complex or a diagnosis. I’m not even sure who our narrator is. A god? The God? My pain-in-the-ass son, Will? Or some other character not to be revealed until the book's final pages? No skipping ahead! But, seriously, I have no idea. He or she is a complete mystery to me, yet I am at his or her command.” Martin looked down at his computer. “You see there? I felt compelled to look away from you and down at my laptop screen.” Martin put his reading glasses back on before adding, “Now, where was I? Oh yes, I was checking on the order that will make my wife the proud owner of one of Bavaria’s finest automobiles.”

After triple-checking that his order had been confirmed, Martin closed his laptop with a smile on his face. Then as he was sitting alone, grinning ear-to-ear in a somewhat disquieting manner, his wife Cheryl stepped into the kitchen, wearing yoga pants and an oatmeal-colored fleece.

As she pulled her dark hair back into a ponytail, she said, “What are you smiling at?”

“Oh, nothing.”

Cheryl smirked. “It doesn’t look like nothing.”

Martin got to his feet. He was a tall man whose hair was thinning and turning gray at the temples. He was still wearing his white dress shirt, but he’d undone the top button and loosened his modest navy-colored tie. After crossing his arms, he leaned against the kitchen counter, saying, “Now, you know, it’s not a good idea to ask too many questions around Christmas.”