12:37 P.M.

Dom Crook was the name chosen by the people at the governmental agency they'd been whisked away to last month. He didn't think it even had a name, just a handful of men in black suits, shiny sunglasses they wore even indoors, and various super-powerful computers.

"Now," the one who looked like Will Smith had said, "This is your new identity. You are Dom Crook, married with two children. You come from Pakistan, but have lived in America twelve years. You like golfing, hunting, and Bollywood movies. Your wife is Patsy Crook, and your children are Dumb and Lousy. Do you follow?"

He'd nodded, "Yes. Married, Pakistan, golfing, Dumb Crook and Lousy Crook. Got it."

"Who is Tom Nook?"

"I am."

"No, you're Dom Crook. From Pakistan. Tom Nook is dead."

And then, amazingly, they'd asked him where he'd wanted to live. They'd chosen his name, background, even his hobbies and interests, but it was up to him to decide where to set up shop. Go figure.

"You're a fool," his wife had said to him, "A goddamn fool. They offer to put us up anywhere in the goddamn country, and where do you pick? Cali-fucking-stan, two goddamn feet from where we used to live. I swear, I should have listened to my mother! I could have married French Peterson! He's a millionare you know!"

While it was true Calistan wasn't exactly as far from Lemon as, say, Los Angeles (where his children had wanted to go- he worried about them sometimes), it was far enough, and big enough, to remain confortably anonymous. He would open another shop, the kids could enroll in school, and his wife...well, she could find something she was good at, something she had skills for. Like a paperweight.

"French Peterson," Dom muttered, shaking his head and watching the real estate agent climb awkwardly into the back of a cab through the building's grimy front window. French Peterson couldn't act his way out of a paper bag. He was currently starring in a thatrical version of "Pink Flamingos". He played Mama Edie, the retarded, egg-obsessed mother of the raging drag queen Divine. French Peterson was scum, something scraped off the bottom of boots. He'd finger-fucked Dom's wife once, when they were in high school together, but she insisted she could have married him and would have had a rich, glamorous Hollywood life. She was delusional.

He moved closer to the window and looked out onto the cobbled street. There was the police station, seven stories high. There were outdoor merchants, huge multiplex theaters, Target stores. How was he going to compete with that? He didn't have the charm or novelties of the outdoor vendors or the selection or prices of the bigger chains. He was stuck in the middle, and he'd be lucky to last a month in a place like this.

"What happens if we don't like our new life?" he'd asked one of the agents on their way back to the airport, "What if I can't get a job or one of the kids gets in a fight at their posh new school?"

"Your children are going to a public school, Mr. Crook, where they will undoubtedly be the subject of merciless ridicule. If you don't like your new life, then I suggest you move. Just don't come crying to us, because we've done all that we can."

He'd thought briefly about returning to Lemon. Mayor Tortimer, who ran the vicious but profitable crime ring he'd been a part of, was dead, as were most of the others. The rest, with the exception of Dom, were in jail. Even so, he didn't think he'd be able to ever safely set foot in Lemon again, much less move back and re-open his shop. He'd read in the papers that Officer Copper had been elected Mayor, and he didn't think he'd be as sympathetic as Tortimer was, if that was even possible. So they would just have to make due in Calistan, which was a big city often favorably compared to Ellis Island.

"It's like a new beginning," Dom said, watching a young human woman with fiery red hair haggle with a street vendor over a loaf of stale, crusty bread.

He turned around and surveyed the small, filthy space once again.

"It's time to get to work."