Author's Notes: The next chapter will be along fairly quickly, as I already know what it's going to be, it's just that this chapter would have been massive so I wanted to split it up!

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It had been ten days since the funeral.

Calvin knew there were unspoken questions in the eyes of the visitors who dropped by to see Abby or to offer belated condolences. Their gazes hovered over Calvin for a half-second too long, and their eyebrows arched when asking him pointed questions about when he would need to "return to work", or when asking, in the most diplomatic of terms of course, how the business of cleaning out some possessions of the dead were going, as if that were what was keeping Calvin there. Again it struck Calvin how strange the rituals surrounding death and mourning were, as though there were pre-described periods of time in which to order one's affairs and any variation was seen as something odd or at the very least impolite.

Suzie, too, had asked Calvin several times when he was planning on leaving again. He knew she was perhaps the only one who meant nothing by it; she, more than anyone, knew of Calvin's propensity to never stay in one place too long and merely wanted to know when the next escape would take place.

The truth was, he had no idea.

Calvin hadn't told his mother, but the work he'd been doing for the travel company had been temporary. Travel writers normally worked as freelancers, and freelancing was a staple of the writer's lifestyle. One never grew too attached to their assignments because they never lasted longer than it took to submit the final draft to the publisher. Not only was the journalism career path changing rapidly into one of sparsely-paid freelance work, but the work of a writer was increasingly becoming that as well. Freelancing had been around since the dawn of the written word, but long stretches of history had seen the writer, in whatever capacity he or she worked in, belonging to a specific newspaper, or publishing company, or magazine. History had seen freelancing as what a struggling writer did until they could land a more permanent position. These were becoming ever rarer and now with the economy what it was, writers like Calvin, who had rarely been locked into anything long-term, found themselves scrambling to find any work at all, at any price. With the meteoric rise of the internet giving a global voice to whoever wanted it, the world became glutted with writers – good, bad, or at least competent enough to write a few words rehashing what someone else already wrote.

Calvin had spent the last three weeks before his father's death on the islands of Bora Bora having plenty to drink and writing letters to anyone and everyone he'd ever worked with, trying to scrounge up a job or two. The ethereal beauty of the islands – easily one of the most beautiful spots he'd ever been to – threatened to lull him into a sense of false security. But as his wallet got emptier, the more desperate he got and he was soon writing to places as far away as London and New York looking for anything – or anyone – that would pay him for his words, or anything else he could convince someone he could do. With his last few hundred dollars, he'd wanted to rent a boat and lose himself in the lush tropical islands that dotted the area, and let the fates send him where they may. Of course, the call from his mother had come in from the States instead, and here he found himself with nary a palm tree or a tropical ocean to soothe his soul.

In other words, he was broke and jobless. He'd been broke plenty of times. Joblessness was a new one.

Part of the problem was that he wasn't at all sure if he wanted to continue doing the types of assignments he had been doing most of his working life; political pieces, travel writing, even a few satirical pieces thrown in every now and then. Besides, the words needed to construct those types of pieces didn't come easily anymore, perhaps because he knew they were meant to sound like they were dashed off, stripped of all description save what was absolutely necessary to get the point across, and he increasingly found himself given to flights of fancy in his writing, though he sternly reminded himself that his words were starting to sound dangerously like creative non-fiction, or worse, of fiction, of all the horrors in the world!

But even though fate had not cast Calvin into the wilds of the south Pacific seas as he'd planned, it didn't mean that she had nothing up her sleeve.

"I suppose I've got to go down and make an appearance," Calvin sighed as he lifted a t-shirt over his head. The unmistakable sounds of a sympathetic neighbor cooing to his mother in the hallway below meant another social visit had unexpectedly been forced upon the Haddocks.

Hobbes lay on the bed languidly behind him, having dug out one of Calvin's old comic books, which he was reading with only a little interest. "It's a small price to pay for all of the food that's been brought to this house, right?"

"Tuna fish casserole is your thing, buddy. Not mine," Calvin answered as he ran a hand through his hair. Over the past few days, most of the weirdness associated with talking to a sentient tiger had worn off. It gave him someone to talk to, anyway. "Don't suppose you'd care to join me?"

"There's a reason tigers are solitary creatures. If you'll notice, we only ever gather to hunt prey."

"Sounds like a good idea to me," Calvin muttered somewhat darkly as he exited the room, shutting the door behind him, and made his way downstairs to find Mrs. Horowitz, a large ancient creature from three doors down grasping tightly onto Abby's hand in the entry hall. A covered glass baking pan that smelt vaguely of chicken crowned a side table near the stairs.

"Oh, and here he is!" Mrs. Horowitz warbled, her three chins wobbling, as she smiled toothily at Calvin and extending her hand. Calvin took the massive paw in hand and shook it gingerly. "Why, I haven't seen you in – well, heavens, years and years, my dear. Tell me, are you still making crown moldings down in Charlestown?"

Calvin betrayed surprise for only a moment before sputtering, "I'm a freelance journalist, actually."

"Oh? What a thing! Journalists are freelance, you say?"

"Well, I've found that crime pays more, Mrs. Horowitz."

Mrs. Horowitz burst into giggles as though Calvin had said something monumentally witty. He now recalled that she often made wild guesses as to someone's profession, never having been particularly interested in others' successes, only failures. "Oh! That sense of humor. I remember now. My dear, I was so sorry to hear about your father. Forgive me for coming so late after I heard, but I just haven't had a moment before now."

"Don't worry about it, Mrs. Horowitz," Abby said with a polite smile. "We so appreciate the kindness everyone has shown us."

"Charlie – you know, my son Charlie? – oh, he has just had the busiest season. Two bestsellers in the last year, and he just hasn't had a moment to himself."

"Charlie is a writer?" Calvin asked with some surprise. As he remembered, Charlie Horowitz had been a geeky kid given to spittle-soaked treatises on the superiority of Star Trek over Star Wars. One of Calvin's favorite hobbies as a kid had been tormenting Charlie by pretending to not know the difference between the two.

"Charlie? Oh, heaven's no!" Mrs. Horowitz answered, placing a hand to her chest, as if having a writer for a son would be an abomination. "Charlie is a literary agent. In New York you know. No, two of his clients just had books published this past year, and what do you know – both were on the bestseller's list! I always knew Charlie knew talent when he spotted it! I like to think I passed that onto him. Why, do you remember Abby, years ago, I said I just knew George Clooney would be a big star, back when hardly anyone knew who he was? I always know!"

Calvin had stopped listening to anything beyond "literary agent." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Charlie, yeah – yeah, he was a nice kid. It'd be good to catch up with him sometime. Shoot the breeze and all of that."

"Well, I don't know how long you're staying, Calvin – " here she threw Calvin a long look, " – after all, it's been what, a week and a half since the funeral? You must have to get back to Charlestown, I know. Charlie is coming down to visit his poor dear mother tomorrow. He tries to visit a few times a year when he can, such a sweet boy."

"Well – I'll be around for at least a few more days," Calvin said, perking up a bit. "If he's got time, send him around. I'll take him out for a beer. I'd like to hear about these bestsellers of his."

"Oh, you know, writers can talk all they want about talent – but it takes someone like Charlie to let their voice be heard, you know?"

Calvin bristled slightly at this.

"But naturally, Calvin, I'm sure he'd like to catch up with you. Here, I have his number," Mrs. Horowitz said, beginning to dig in her purse. A moment later she held up a business card triumphantly and handed it to him. "I try to give these out to any writers I meet. But I suppose you can have one, too!"

"Calvin is a writer," Abby pointed out gently.

"I thought you said he was a journalist? Journalists aren't writers, are they? At least not in the traditional sense. Oh, you know what I mean – no real craft for storytelling, I mean."

There are a few Pulitzer Prize Winners who'd take that up with you, Calvin thought to himself, suppressing a groan while reminding himself that Mrs. Horowitz had just handed him something that might help him get a job.

"Anyway, I must be off. Don't be a stranger, Calvin! Bye now!"

Mrs. Horowitz thusly handled, Abby and Calvin turned to each other.

"Crown molding?" Calvin cried.

"Charlestown?" Abby rejoined.


"Why the hell are my hands sweating?" Calvin demanded brusquely a few hours later as he sat up in the guest room with Hobbes. "Is it food poisoning from that atrocious thing in the glass dish Mrs. Horowitz deigned edible?"

"At least you got the chance to eat it hot," Hobbes grumped from the floor, where he lay looking up at Calvin pointedly.

"Hey look, it wasn't easy convincing Mom that I wanted seconds, and that I wanted to eat them in my room," Calvin reminded him. Charlie's business card sat on Calvin's knee, a ten digit phone number with a New York area code looking back up at him. Calvin sighed. "Hobbes, Charlie Horowitz was such a booger of a kid that I don't even know if I want to talk to him fifteen years later."

"I don't know if I could ever trust someone who honestly thought Jean-Luc Picard was a better captain than Han Solo anyway," Hobbes yawned, scratching his cheek. "Wonder if he's the kind of Trekkie that wears those little pointed ears in grocery stores and malls?"

Calvin shuddered. "I need a job, Hobbes. And it sounds like this guy has his foot in a few doors. Never know, right?"

"Would it really make any difference if you did?"

Throwing Hobbes a smirk, Calvin quickly dialed the number before he could think better of it. After three rings, a baritone voice answered and Calvin nearly stumbled over his words in presenting himself, hoping Charlie would remember him as a classmate in much the same social standing as he was back then, or at the very least a friendly acquaintance. After a few false starts, Charlie burst that of course he remembered Calvin Haddock, and how the hell are ya and whaddya been doin' with yourself, man? soon followed. Calvin broke the news about his father, and how he'd talked with Charlie's mother that same afternoon.

"And I just thought, hell, I'll give Charlie a call and see how he's doing, see if he wants to meet up for a drink when he gets here tomorrow."

"Well, hey partner, that sounds great! We've got a lotta catchin' up to do, eh? Yeah, sure man! Lissen, tomorrow night sounds great. I have a feelin' I'll need to get away from Mom for a while anyway, knowwhatimeanman? Ha!"

"That's – that's great, Charlie. Just stop on by here tomorrow, all right? Anytime's fine. I'll be here."

A few minutes later, after all pleasantries were exhausted, Calvin hung up the phone and stared at it for a moment. "Since when did Charlie Horowitz start calling people 'partner'? Or start speaking in elisions? Isn't living in New York supposed to eradicate stuff like that?"

"Maybe it's air pollution poisoning," Hobbes offered helpfully, having dug back into the stack of comic books.

"I've got a lot of work to do," Calvin muttered as he dug his laptop out of his bag for the first time since getting home.

"Like what?"

"Like writing something. I have to have some ideas to throw at this guy when the time's right."

"Great! I love writing stories!" Hobbes burst happily as he jumped into the chair next to where Calvin was seated at the desk. "We used to write stories all the time, remember?"

"Yeah, well, not like this," Calvin said hurriedly as he booted up his computer and opened a blank document. "This needs to be hard-hitting. Real-life. Gritty."

"Why?"

"Because that's what sells, Hobbes."

"How about those old Tracer Bullet stories we wrote, hm? Still have a few of those lying around somewhere?"

"No, no Hobbes – nothing like that."

"He was gritty, hard-hitting, no nonsense – "

"It isn't the same thing. Look. I don't need your help, all right?"

"Can I at least draw the pictures?"

Calvin scoffed. "That's the last thing I need. 'Illustrated by an imaginary tiger.'"

Hobbes protracted a sharp claw. "Care to wager on the imaginary part?"

Calvin shut the lid of his laptop in an annoyed manner. "Hobbes, I don't need your help. This is grown-up stuff, all right?"

"I don't know what's so great about this grown-up stuff you keep talking about," Hobbes sulked, crossing his arms in front of himself. "Just a lot of excuses as to why you have to do things you don't really want to do. You'd be better off writing about me."

"Not gonna happen," Calvin said as he opened the lid and began to type furiously.

Hobbes watched him intently for a few moments, then went back to his stack of comic books. He could already tell this would be one of those all-nighter affairs Calvin was so fond of even in childhood.