Terence opened his eyes the merest crack. There should be no one in this spartan room above his shop—except him—but waking, he sensed the unmistakable presence of a someone else. Through barely parted lashes, the half-light of dawn proved him right. Willy Wonka, his reclusive friend, was peacefully curled in the winged armchair at the foot of the bed: eyes closed, hat unseen, one end of his Nerd filled walking stick cradled in the crook of a limp arm, the other laid across his tucked up knees, his chest rising and falling rhythmically in sleep.

Terence relaxed. The situation was no cause for alarm, and not happening for the first time. Otherwise unmoving, Terence flicked his eyes to the bedside table. Unlike that time, this time, no little Square-Candy-That-Looks-Round face stared back at him. A sigh of disappointment escaped him.

"I brought you one if you want one," said Willy.

Studiously disguising the fact he'd been startled, Terence transferred his gaze back to the chair, finding Willy's sparkling violet eyes on him like a crow contemplating a shiny trinket. Abandoning his pretense of sleep, Terence sat up. "I was hoping for more than one." What an accomplished sneak Willy was—breaking and entering without a sound—and what a faker. He had me completely fooled. "I was sure you were asleep." Terence had no doubt Willy would make a more than passable fellow spy, if he ever decided to give up this Chocolate Factory thing of his.

A corner of Willy's mouth turned up wryly, pleased with the success of his ruse. Terence was sharp, and not easy to fool. Reaching into his emerald-green, frock coat pocket, Willy genially threw over a handful of Square Candies. "Couldn't sleep." Willy watched as Terence gathered up the candies from the blanket, piling them together in his hand. "Thought a change of scene might help." Alarmingly, it looked as if Terence were planning to eat the entire handful in one gulp. "Ew," Willy squeaked, leaning forward, genuinely appalled. "Don't do that where I can see it! All those little faces! It'd be a massacre!" Willy flopped back, shuddering where he sat.

"Feeling crowded over there at your place, are you?" Terence lowered his hand, smiling. The Factory was huge. And only Willy would describe candy eating as a 'massacre'. "Buckets keeping you hopping? Tearing up the place, are they?" Terence reached toward the nightstand as he talked, stacking the candies, one by one. "Wild parties going on with the Oompa-Loompas, at all hours of the day and night?"

Willy had moved the Buckets into his Factory a few days ago, after Charlie had accepted an apprenticeship, with the Bucket house slated to follow. Terence hadn't seen him since, and you never knew with Willy, how long these absences would last, so it was good to see Willy now, even if Terence couldn't resist needling him, and even if it was the dawn patrol: a time of day not his favorite, when he could be sleeping. Willy must have something on his mind.

Willy rolled his eyes at Terence's irreverent tone, tightening, in feigned disgust, the corner of his mouth so recently engaged in the wry smile. Terence was almost funny, but the reason Willy was here quashed his inclination to enjoy the humor. "No," Willy said, dispiritedly. At least Terence was arranging the candies on the bedside table, and not eating them. "Nothing like that. If anything they're too quiet: they tiptoe around… like they think I'll break, and it creeps me out, but that's not the problem."

"Not Charlie."

Willy stirred, and leaned his walking stick against the chair. "No," he allowed. "Not Charlie. He's a joy. Grandpa George."

"Grandpa George is the problem?"

"No. But he tries to follow me everywhere, like a shadow."

"That's the problem?"

"No. I'm faster."

"So, what's the problem?"

Willy looked pained, his eyes dull. The problem was that this problem, was like that problem, and that problem was something he'd scrupulously avoided thinking about all his life. Willy didn't want to get near that problem now, but because of this problem, that problem wouldn't take the hint, and kept getting near him, so for this problem, he must. Swallowing, Willy shifted uncomfortably, looking for something else to think about, and avoid that problem for one… minute… more… but that problem was why he was here. Sighing dejectedly, Willy's eyes settled on the innocuous little Squares. Happily charmed and distracted by what he saw, his mood shifted like sand underfoot: not too much, but enough. Terence had done a nifty thing: he had set up the Square Candies at an angle, so that when Terence spoke, they would look at Terence, and when he spoke they would look at him. The candies were an audience watching a tennis match—back and forth, back and forth—and amused by the arrangement, Willy's eyes again began to sparkle.

"The…" Willy waved his ever-gloved hand in a circular motion in Terence's direction, emphatically impatient, his voice energized, his eyes glued to the candies.

Terence, frowning in consternation at Willy's nervous activity, looked the situation over. It took a minute to catch on, but the candies, he decided, were the clue. Still not completely sure, he tentatively said, "problem…"

"Is…" rejoined Willy quickly, dropping his hand and smiling with satisfaction, watching the soothing little eyes keep time.

"That…"

"You…"

"Have…" a strange improv, but Terence was glad it was working so far.

"No idea how…" Willy's cadence had slowed.

"Much…" Terence was thankful for the lead Willy had given him with the extra words.

"Planning…" Willy's voice was beginning to sound strained.

"It takes…" guessed Terence slowly, feeling the rising tension, his gut tightening.

"Tomoveahouse." With the rapidly jumbled words, barely intelligible, barely out of his mouth, Willy bolted from the chair, scooping his upturned hat from the floor, already half-way to the door.

"STOP!" Terence's voice rang out shockingly, as he quickly leaned forward, smacking a frustrated hand meaninglessly on the blanket. No way Willy would stop. The little Square Candy eyes tried to jump off their little Square Candy faces, as if sharing the sentiment, and the shock, themselves. "IT'S NOT THE SAME!"

Willy stopped as if nailed to the floor. His shoulders were rigid, the velvet fabric of his coat stretched taut across his back. His arms, as rigid as his shoulders, flared a bit from his sides, as if the increased area they occupied would ward off the excruciation he was feeling: had avoided feeling, for as long as he could remember. Hatred felt awful. The fingers of his left hand curled and clenched, crushing the brim of the hat he held to shapelessness, just as the fingers of his right hand curled and clenched around the shaft of his walking stick, attempting to pulverize it, too. He was so close to agony he could almost touch it... almost, and he screamed because he couldn't help himself: 'it's close enough… close enough… CLOSE ENOUGH!' But Terence couldn't hear him, couldn't help him, because it was all happening in his head, and nowhere else. Willy's screams were silent, as, since that long ago day, they always were.

The atmosphere in the room had gone electric; Terence's nerves tensed with alertness, his senses sharpening as his mind raced. The Buckets had no way of seeing this coming, but I should have. Moving house—literally. Willy's father had done it, decades ago, Willy barely older than Charlie was now: moving Willy's house without his knowledge, leaving Willy behind in the process. It was cruel, deliberately cruel… past, but not forgotten, and not as handled as Willy pretends: how horrific for Willy, the victim of the earlier episode, to discover firsthand what planning such an event entailed, and how devastating.

Action was needed—Willy hadn't moved, but his breathing was becoming rapid, and shallow. Touching him was out, in this state Terence doubted Willy could stand it, but Terence must reach him. In a monotone, Terence began talking, not caring what he said, as long as the sound kept coming, an invisible lifeline to pull Willy back from whatever gripped him.

Though despairing the attempt would work, Terence kept it up, and gradually, the gambit had the desired effect. Willy's breathing slowed; he began to hear a faint stream of words, "…not happening now, over, long gone, history, you're fine, this is different, not the same…" He heard the words: over; gone; history; fine. He listened for more. "…You've already licked this one, old sport, left it in the dust, no cause to dredge it up, this is different, it's different, different, not the same, it's not the same…" That was true. Willy liked this stream of talk better than the stream going on in his head. This was different. His hands relaxed, the numbness leaving them, his arms and shoulders following. Aware of his surroundings again, Willy studiously brought his hat up to his face, and examined the brim. Turning around, he held the mangled hat toward Terence. "This is toast," he whispered.

"Good man," said Terence, mildly, before he could think. He leaned back. Willy remained where he was, and Terence, encouraged, continued his bid to return the grisly to the mundane. "Good," he said again, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "Now, dear chap, forget about the hat, put one foot in front of the other, slowly, take a deep breath—two if you like—walk back, nonchalantly mind you, to the chair, and sit down." Willy looked steadier. "I know what you mean, have no idea what you're going through, but I know you know I know you have a plan, or you wouldn't be here." Terence smiled reassuringly. "Tell me what it is."

Oh, the relief! Willy felt the warmth being understood brought suffuse his body, and basking in it, he stood motionless a moment longer, letting it build. He felt a smile. "Ya know, ya sound like me."

"Intentionally, dear chap, and it's not easy on short notice," replied Terence breezily. "Thanks for thinking so. I'm hoping it gives me credibility when I say I know what you mean. So sit down already, and spill the beans."

After all the anxiety the changes made in the past few days had brought, Willy gratefully sat down again. If Terence was taking this calamity in stride, he could, too. But having settled himself back in the chair, Willy found he could say nothing, unexpectedly exhausted, and he sat instead, wondering how long it would take for this state to pass. Terence didn't seem to mind in the least, more than content to wait, and so they sat, as the room gradually lightened. After a while, Terence popped a Square Candy in his mouth, crunching down on it unconcernedly. Yuck, thought Willy, watching the small decapitation with horror: but watching the destruction brought back his tongue. "The plan is… you do it."

"Me?" Terence's eyebrows shot up. Willy was talking again, but what he was saying wasn't what Terence was expecting to hear. "You still want to go through with this? Why move it at all? I'm sure the Buckets are perfectly happy where they are, without it. If you ask me, they'll never miss it."

Willy shrugged, less than happy with himself. "I'll miss it, and Bucket-wise, some are, some aren't. I thought, hoped really, I'd be one of the are-s, but I'm definitely one of the aren't-s."

"Is thinking you'd be one of the are-s why you wrecked the place?" Terence may not have seen Willy lately, but he'd moseyed down to the Bucket house the other day to find no Buckets, and a very much enlarged, gaping hole in the already gaping-hole-equipped Bucket roof. The ad hoc renovation rendered the house uninhabitable.

Willy sighed. "Yeah, that was me, but that wasn't why. I had to get them out of there. Doing it made me look bad, but I had no choice. After the grand announcement at that dinner, my expectation was bright-eyed, bushy-tailed Buckets at the gates the next morning, but by afternoon, no Buckets, and after school Charlie reported dithering among the grands, about how, and when." Willy shook his head in disbelief, making a face that mirrored it. "Can you imagine? Dilly. And dally. About moving into my Factory. The right 'when' is right then."

"Or next morning, if it's late, and you're over eighty," grinned Terence. "How did you expect them to get there?"

"I dunno. Walk? I've seen them all do it. Except for The Stickler."

"Josephine?"

"Yeah, that one." Willy considered. "They could've taken a cab. They could've taken two cabs… heck, a cab for each of them!" Willy drew himself up, pouting peevishly. "You'd think they'd know I'm good for the fare."

Terence laughed outright, and Willy, the knowledge of his worldwide candy empire backing him, instantly dropped the put-on pout, and smiled wickedly.

"But instead?"

"Instead," replied Willy, haughtily, "they left it up to me, and that's what you get. Dilly, dally, dither: what if they changed their minds? Had second thoughts? I'm not everyone's cat's meow. We can't have that now, can we? So Charlie and I jumped into the Great Glass Elevator, and I crashed the roof so they couldn't use the house, loaded 'em all up—including the bed—and hauled 'em off to the Factory."

"And the rest of their things?"

"The personal things? Noah and Nora and Charlie boxed 'em up, and—not that they needed one—brought 'em back in one of my trucks." Willy sat back in awe. "Noah and Nora know how to drive."

Willy said the last sentence as if the ability to drive a truck were a miraculous feat. Terence decided not to investigate the incredulity; it was already all too easy to get sidetracked talking to Willy. "Forget the driving: you have the Buckets, and their things. Why do you still want the house?"

"Because I've already told you, I don't want parens living in my Factory. I said I wouldn't like it, I've tried it, and I don't like it," answered Willy, testily. For some words, Willy preferred Latin over English, 'parents' being one of them. "Technically, the Bucket house is not my Factory. If they live there, they're in the Factory, and out of the Factory, at the same time. That suits me, and it will suit them." Willy paused, and the pout was back, sincere this time. Even he thought this was a mighty fine hair to split, but splitting it made the dynamic work for him, so split it he would. "I bet they want a place in the Factory that's theirs and not mine as much as I do. Besides which, that's what Charlie wants: his house in The Chocolate Room. You saw the drawing he made, and you know we made a deal, and a deal's a deal. Will you do it?" Willy's manner was gruff, but his eyes were pleading.

Terence had decided at the first request. "It's a deal."

"Ahh…" Willy looked like Atlas shrugging the world off his shoulders, and with a deep sigh, he closed his eyes. A moment later they snapped back open, and he was all business. "Good man." Willy's eyes glittered with purpose. "As to resources, you have carte blanche, other than Oompa-Loompas. I don't want Oompa-Loompas out in the cold. As to method, do it in pieces, one piece at a time, all of them separate, all carefully marked, for re-assembly later."

"Because?"

Smiling now, Willy tilted his head back, and said in his best Mr. Roger's voice, "Can you say, 'septicemia'?" He lowered his gaze and met Terence's, saying in his normal voice, "Did my Factory seem like a place filled with germs to you? That house is a pus pocket, no offense, surrounded by a dump…"

"None taken, but I'm not a Bucket," answered Terence, matter-of-factly popping another of the irresistible Square Candies into his mouth. He knew Willy wasn't being mean when he described the tiny, ramshackle Bucket house that way, and Terence knew Willy knew what he was talking about. Willy had explored the Bucket house in meticulous detail during the dinner—while everyone else was eating—that Mrs. Bucket, having invited both Terence and Willy earlier in the afternoon, hadn't expected Willy to attend. Her surprise when he did—and her surprise when she learned the reason—almost knocked her over, and she wasn't alone. It astounded her entire family to learn the news of Charlie's apprenticeship. But it wasn't every day Willy Wonka took on an apprentice, and on the day he did, try as he might, he didn't see any way forward except to clear it with the parens himself: especially as Charlie's dream was to live in the Factory, with his familia in tow. It was a bizarre dream in Willy's view, but there it was, and there was no getting around it. The dinner invitation he'd thought he'd duck, turned out to be just ducky to get that done.

Remembering Willy's roaming, so disconcerting to the Buckets, Terence was still amused by the comment that had come floating down from Charlie's loft, once, after Willy lay down on it, the creak of the bedsprings of Charlie's cot had subsided. 'Terrific view you have here, Charlie.' It was a view of Willy's own dear Chocolate Factory, through the hole in the roof. 'Won't you miss it?'

'Yes, Willy! I will!' Charlie, sitting at the table, surrounded by his happy and admiring family, had yelled joyously back up. 'But it will be the only thing! Because everyone, and everything else, is coming with me! And that view is where we're going!' And Charlie had burst into exultant laughter, beside himself with happiness.

Willy's silky voice snapped Terence back to the present.

"You ate that. I saw it. That's the second one. I already said 'Ew'. Pl-ease don't make me say it again."

"Too late," muttered Terence.

Willy felt himself returning to form. "Ew," he laughed. "I want that entire collection of detritus dismantled, with each piece individually steam-cleaned, and disinfected within an inch of its life."

Terence had picked up another Square Candy, but in deference, he put it down again. "Life? I think you're too late for that, too. That house doesn't owe anybody anything."

Willy waved a hand good-naturedly, settling more comfortably into the chair. Now that this distasteful phase of the moving project was out of his hands, and into a trusted someone else's, he felt scads better. "Whatever. If it gets to go in my Chocolate Room, it gets to go there spotless, so it gets to get dismantled."

"It shall be as you say, Exalted One," murmured Terence.

Willy grinned, ignoring the friendly sarcasm, giggling a little as he weighed 'Exalted One' in his mind, turning it over, considering whether he preferred it to 'Amazing Chocolatier'.

Guessing what Willy was thinking, Terence ignored him, and made a steeple of his hands. "I'll dismantle, you disinfect." Taking a moment to mull over the possibilities, Terence was pretty sure he knew how he wanted to go ahead with this. A couple of phone calls should do it, and he could turn the heavy lifting over to much younger people, with excellent result. Something else occurred to him. "Why didn't I hear the Great Glass Elevator?"

"I walked. It was dark."

"It's not now. I'll walk you back."