The airport is a lot more congested than the one at home. I scan the crowd, my eyes narrowing to focus on the faces furthest away. Stopping to think, I ask myself who I am supposed to be looking for. Dad never told me what he looked like. Just then I notice a man standing near the escalators. He has his eyes fixed on me, and he looks to be asking himself the same question. I walk closer to him as he runs his fingers through his curly hair. It's graying at the sides, and makes him look very distinguished. There is some white, as though sprinkled with salt and pepper. A feeling in my gut tells me this must be the guy, my uncle.

"Meghan?" he asks, tilting his head like some sort of confused bird.

"Um, ya. It's me. Hi." I don't even notice as I give a small wave.

"Hello."

There is an awkward silence, "Uh-my bags should be coming out soon." We walk over to the conveyer belt.

As we approach he seems very interested in the moving luggage. I watch him, his deep blue eyes are focusing on each suitcase, each bag. His head tilts again and his eyebrow rises. "Did you know that the French word for conveyer is transporteur? It translates back into English as carrier."

This guy's weird. "Yes, I took French class in school." I explain as I grab my suitcases. His expression is indescribable. He looks hurt, though I don't know why.

"Oh, I see. Well, we better get going."

~*~*~*~

The ride home has been long and quiet. The Tahoe is quite roomy though, and I pretended to admire the softness of the seats to keep busy. This lasted a few minutes until I noticed the scenery. Flat, dry, unlike anything I have seen before. The houses were side by side in perfect order. The fake green grass was faultless, with the occasional garden gnome. It almost seems like a fake neighbourhood from a movie or a television show. This is going to take some getting used to.

~*~*~*~ We're at his town house now. The walls are painted plain white and there is a large stereo on the far wall. I wonder what kind of music this guy listens to. Probably not Our Lady Peace.

My uncles' voice breaks my thoughtful silence. "Help yourself to a drink." He points towards the kitchen; whish is pretty much the same room as the living and dining room, but with an island counter dividing it. He walks into what I suppose is a spare room with my two brown, tattered suitcases. I don't feel like a drink now, so I decide to explore me new home. There are framed butterflies and moths on the wall.weird. I walk into the room my Uncle had just emerged from and gasp at what I see. One single bed lies in the middle of the room, and what else? Tarantulas. Everywhere. There must be 20 cages of them! Along with what look like maggots, worms, and beetles. What is with this guy? I turn to run from the room and WHAM I run right into my uncles' chest.

"What's wrong?" he asks. What does he think is wrong? Is he blind? Does he not see what I see?

"What--um--these." is all I can spit out.

"Those are like my pets. Some people are cat people, others are dog people. I'm a bug man myself."

"You can't seriously expect me to sleep in here with these--these things!"

"It's fine, they won't mind. They like the company," He looks at my shocked expression and seems to register it, "They rarely escape from their cages anyway." Rarely?

"Why are there so many?" Good question, I thought.

"Well, they couldn't all fit in my room. I had to put them somewhere." I was wrong. "You're dad, he never told you what I did, did he?

"Not exactly."

"I'm a Criminalist."

"Oh ya, cool."

"You don't know what that is, do you?"

"No clue."

"Aw, something you haven't learned in school. The basics are, I go to crime scenes, examine evidence left behind by who ever committed the crime, help to find the 'bad guy."

"And the bugs?"

"Most CSI's have a specialty area. Blood spatter analysis, ballistics. Mine is forensic entomology, the study of bugs to help solve crimes."

"Cool!" I say a bit too loud. He flinches at the sudden change of pitch. "Sorry."