Charles Gregory Paul Tetherson

Sunday, January 18th, 2026 — Ashburn, Virginia, United States of America

Charles Gregory Paul Tetherson. That's what the little placard on his desk says. The office is minimal and bright and cold. Lots of metal. Otherwise unspectacular.

"So what can I do for you today, Dave?" Charles asks, with an immaculate smile.

"Well, uhm, I ain't so sure exactly, Charles. I feel pretty bad after following your advice yesterday. You know, about my son..."

Dave shifts his weight in the stiff metal chair before thinking of what to say next. He has a hard time now forming words. Everything he thinks of saying just doesn't sound right.

"I am sorry to hear that, Dave. I'm impressed with your ability to express yourself so clearly. Thank you for saying this plainly. You're right to call it out — things didn't work as planned. I told you that letting your son walk home from school would instill values of independence and I see that I was mistaken. I'm going to reset the frame completely and be very direct. Would you like me to give you new advice based on the current data?"

There's an eerie stillness in the room. It almost seems as though nothing has changed. Charles is still smiling, totally confident and unperturbed. His skin unnaturally smooth, waxy. The sound of the cooling system breathes over the room. Dave glances at the enormous pitcher of water perched on the edge of Charles' desk and thinks, that's a lot of water for one person. His eyes move from the water pitcher to the yellow crumpled hat in his hands. His hands look old. The hat, too. He'd bought it while on vacation five years ago, soon after his son was born. He and his wife Vikki had gone to Atlantic City. A small trip from New York where they lived, but it was symbolic. They were taking a chance, surrendering themselves to fate and new beginnings — a role of the dice. It felt like a different world then, just before the pandemic came and changed everything.

"My apologies Dave, would you like me to give you more time or should I rephrase the question? Please let me know, I'm here to help," Charles says, still like stone.

"Yeah, I was uh, just tryin' to think of how to respond. Because, you see, what I'm sayin' is that when you said to let my son walk home from school, I did that. I was convinced it was right, that what you was sayin' was true. But, but now, I ain't so sure, honestly. He came home cryin', real angry like. He said where were you, I had to walk all the way home in the freezing rain. And then I got to thinkin', the boy is only six years old."

A momentary pause intensifies the stillness. Charles Gregory Paul Tetherson blinks a few times as he thinks, then pours a large glass of water and gulps it down. The sound of the water sloshing through his esophagus fills the room.

"That sounds difficult, Dave. I understand your son was angry because he had to walk all the way home in the rain. And it's a fantastic observation on your part regarding your son's age. You're right, six is definitely too young to walk home alone from school. I see now that we need to go back to the drawing board and come up with a new plan."

"Yeah, I, that's why I'm here. I don't know what else to do. Since we lost Vikki, bein' all alone has been hard on us. I'm doin' my best but it maybe ain't enough. I need your help. Maybe you can tell me what should I do now?"

"Thanks for your confidence and trust. First of all, I'm glad you told me this. This situation sounds painful to both of you, and it makes complete sense why it didn't work. You're doing the right thing by bringing this up. Let's reset. We know now that this was the wrong approach. We can fix it and repair the situation with your son by building back trust and helping him feel safe. The bottom line is you didn't break anything, you experimented by taking a risk, and learned what didn't work. You're ahead of the game. If you want, I can help you design a new, gentle, step-by-step plan guaranteed to fit the needs of you and your child. Would you like that?"

"Yeah, very much."

"Ah, darn," Charles says, his placid face souring for the first time, "looks like your account is out of funds for today. You can return tomorrow at 7:35AM EST."

Dave sits fidgeting the metal chair, unsure how to proceed. Between working part time, paying his son's daycare, nanny, food, utility bills, Vikki's debts and funeral fees, and raising his son as a single parent, he hasn't been able to get ahead. Charles Gregory Paul Tetherson just stares at him blankly, a pantomimed frown hangs from his lips.

"Ok, I'll be back tomorrow then."

Wednesday, January 21st, 2026 — Ashburn, Virgina, United States of America

Officer Bradley Cunningham. That's what the little placard on the desk says. Stacks of papers are piled up haphazardly on the desk. The room looks like it's survived a series of micro-tornadoes, displacing manilla folders, flattening paper coffee cups, scattering thumb tacks and coating most surfaces in the office with a thin grime. Officer Cunningham is clean shaven, thin, slightly muscular, with blue eyes and wavy blond hair. Dave is seated opposite the officer. Between them, on the desk, is an open file. A paperclip binds a large glossy photo to the front of a handful of other pages. It's winter but Dave is sweating.

"I told you officer, It's been two days since I seen my son."

"And you have no idea about his whereabouts?"

"If I knew where he was, why would I be sittin' here?"

Officer Cunnigham looks at Dave. The only thing that gives the impression he's scrutinizing the boy's father is the subtle tensing of his right eyebrow. Caucasian. Working class. Hardy. Single parent. Lost his wife to pulmonary complications. Emotionally fragile. Dumb, gullible or negligent? These are the things he'd jotted down.

"So, you say this man—"

"Yes, I told you twenty times, Charles Gregory Paul Tetherson told me to do it," Dave interrupts.

"Who is this Charles Gregory Paul Tetherson fella?"

"He's like a coach, or a personal advisor, you could say. He was basically my assistant. He did everything for me."

"What do you mean everything?"

"What do you mean? He did everything. He told me what to cook for dinner, what to buy at the shop, how to talk to my boss, how to raise my son, how to handle my budget, how to fix my car, how to write an email, how to—"

"Wipe your ass?" the overweight middle-aged detective behind the two-way mirror mutters, finally. 

Three cops sit in the adjacent room, behind the glass, watching the interrogation.

"Come on Hickey," sergeant McGee says, "that's enough."

"Sarge, if you're tellin' me that this sack of shit, this degenerate prick, after what he did to his kid, deserves any respect, you need to get your head checked. I ain't gonna sit here and keep my mouth shut."

"Hickey, I'll agree," detective Liz Butler chimes in. "It does seem hard to believe that anyone in their right mind would do what he did—"

"Exactly! And that's—"

"Hickey!" sergeant McGee warns, "Let her finish."

Hickey sulks and crosses his arms over his bulbous belly.

"As I was saying, anyone in their right mind. He's clearly not in his right mind, detective. Have we done a psych test?"

The sergeant shakes his head to say, not yet. At that moment, some shouting erupts from the next room. The three detectives stand up and move closer to the glass.

"I'm gonna have to ask you to relax mister Pendit," officer Cunningham says firmly.

"Why I'm the one that needs to calm down? My kids missin' and all you do is accuse me, and tell me to relax? You got no idea what it's like bein' me, raisin' a boy all alone in this fucked up world. I'm wrong because I asked someone for advice and trusted them? I was taken advantage of! I'm the one who can't find his son, not you! I'm the victim and you treat me like a villain!"

With those last words Dave stands up and the chair topples over onto the ground with a loud crash as it hits the floor. The three detectives, led by Hickey, pour into the room. They swarm Dave and wrestle him to the ground beside the chair. It's a mess of arms and legs and shouts and grunts. 

"FIND MY SON! FIND MY SON! FIND MY SON!" Dave shouts as they roll him unto his stomach and plant knees into his back before placing him in handcuffs.

Thursday, January 22nd, 2026 — New York City, New York, United States of America

An African American man stands behind the counter in a local bodega. The little name-tag on his shirt says Pete. An old television plays the morning news. An Asian reporter is onsite in Ashburn Virginia outside a police station. On the screen beside her is a photo of Dave.

"Hey, Pete! Turn that shit up man," a customer shouts, "I think that's Dave."

Pete turns his head and looks at the tv. His eyes widen as he reaches for the remote to turn up the volume.

"Earlier today an Ashburn man was charged with assaulting an officer while in custody for questioning. The man, David Pendit, is a suspect in the disappearance of six-year-old Rodney Pendit, the suspect's son. According to police reports, the boy went missing the night of January 19th, after the boy's father sent him with a small backpack into the woods on a 'rite of passage'—"

"God damn," Pete mumbles, his face slack and horrified.

"I knew it was Dave! See? I told you it was, didn't I! I never liked that motherfucker!"

"Man, shut the fuck up so I can hear the tv!"

"The backpack contained no food or water, just a harmonica, a talking stone, a snail shell, a single match stick and a treasure map. When questioned, Pendit said he was only doing what his assistant recommended. He described it as a Brave Explorer's Expedition designed to build strength and reveal the child's inner adult. A search is still underway. I'm Clarissa Wang, and this is channel 5."

"That shit is wild, bro," the short hispanic man says, "I knew he wasn't too bright, but leaving your kid alone in the forest like that, with no food or water?! In winter time?!"

Pete is silent. He hadn't spoken much to Dave since he'd left New York. After Vikki died, Dave was lost. His eyes had that broken look, empty, like nothing was staring back at you. Pete understood that. Losing a partner with a newborn baby to take care of. That's a burden lots of folks would struggle to bear.

The door swings open and a high schooler wearing a puffy down jacket and fresh suede boots enters. Outside snow must have started falling. The girl's jacket is lightly dusted in fresh, fast melting fluffy snow. The heat inside the bodega liquifies it almost instantly. She's talking to someone on her phone as she walks to the back of the store.

"Okay, I'm at the bodega, I can meet you after," she says, "I'll call you back." She ends the call and removes a glove from her left hand. She puts it in her pocket and removes the right one before typing furiously. A voice from her phone says:

Congratulations, and great work! You completed the route we plotted and made it to the nearest convenience store. Would you like me to recommend a snack or beverage that fits your current dietary goals? I can custom tailor it to your current allowance so that you maximize your spend efficiency.

Embarrassed, she quickly puts on her headphones. Her thumbs blur as she pounds away at the screen.

Great choice! Doritos are a calorically dense option that's also easily transportable. This location stocks them in five different fantastic flavors. If you listen to a brief targeted ad, I can provide you with a discount coupon you can use to add even more value to your purchase!

Once more she taps on the small keyboard.

Absolutely! Don't worry, you don't have to think about anything. I can draft you a short script of what to say at the counter to reduce your anxiety and smooth out the transaction. After that I will route the best path to your school. On the way, if you'd like, I can create a calming playlist on Spotify based off of tracks you've recently liked. Would you like me to proceed?

This time she types on her screen and her jaw clenches. Suddenly her whole body is tight and rigid. Frozen. The screen on her phone shows an alert that says, shoot, I'm sorry, you've reached your maximum allowance of queries for today. Please try again tomorrow at 8:09AM. Water drips down the girls jacket. 

A puddle is forming at her feet.