Indigo Children Chapter Two: The Best Valentine's Day

RE: Indigo Children (Tentative title) Preview

Wonderfully awesome. I'm curious though. Is Jason and Dan me and Bandit?

RE: Indigo Children (Tentative title) Preview

i'll clear that up right now.

Dean = me
Anna = Ananana
Allison = Raven
Mike = Mal
Dan = Chromer
Jason = Bandit
BJ = Nightsonnett

Andrew = Reach
Cory = Spec
Eddie = Edubardus

The three remaining characters names are still unconfirmed.

the three other people though, in case you forgot are LD, Tass, and Gangstarr.

RE: Indigo Children (Tentative title) Preview

So thats why you needed to know Alicia's eye color. Overall I say that I love the way that you have written that. It's great.

RE: Indigo Children (Tentative title) Preview

Well, it's almost 5am and i just finished writing chapter one. I'm debating whether or not to post it right now. I was originally planning on waiting till Part one was done (about 5 to 7 chapters) before posting, but considering the fact that chapter one just rang in at 24 pages of freehand writing, i'm thinking that Part One might be a little much for people to handle at once.

If I decide to post it, you'll know by tuesday evening.

RE: Indigo Children (Tentative title) Preview

Looking forward to it.

RE: Indigo Children (Tentative title) Preview

Been waiting for this is more like it. I'M PUMPED. O_O

RE: Indigo Children (Tentative title) Preview

fuck, sorry guys. honestly I've been working midnights, and haven't had any fucking time to do anything. I'm halfway through typing out chapter one, and have ideas galore, i Just don't have any free time atm. I got tomorrow (saturday night) off, in which case I will be finishing up chapter one for sure. Hopefully chapter two will be ready to rock by mid next week, in which I FINALLY get back to day shifts... not till friday though. I have a good two days off next week in which i'll be awake a lot of, so hopefully this will get rolling.

I know how you feel guys, I'm excited as well as frustrated about this as well...

RE: Indigo Children (Tentative title) Preview

I'm saying that I'm excited again, but what I'm really doing is bumping this to keep it up at the top.

Okay guys, sorry about the long wait. I finally managed to type out chapter one. It's not exactly as action packed as the prologue, not that the prologue was exactly exciting, but whatever.

Okay, so here goes.

Part One - A meeting of Friends


Chapter One

Defying the Odds

Dean Kenells wasn’t exactly someone you’d trust with your life- in fact, he probably wasn’t even someone you would trust the welfare of your groceries with.

The thick grey clouds that covered the sky on the afternoon of February the twelfth threatened snow, something that was only aiding in draining Dean’s spirit’s as he made his way to the rusted old Ford Aerostar to deliver his thirteenth order of groceries that day. A breeze caught the underside of his coat, causing a chilly draft to grace the back of his neck which became yet another factor to lower his spirits.

It wasn’t however, the fact that Dean’s nose was leaking like a faucet, or that he had, for the third time in his five hour shift, dropped and completely destroyed a dozen eggs; most of which ended up coating his boots with a slimy yellow liquid and tainting the snow that covered them that bothered him. It was the fact that Valentine’s Day was less than forty eight hours away and he was beginning to feel that last remaining, highly withered Soy bean plant in the field across from his house was going to have more luck finding a date than he would.

Dean wasn’t exactly a bad looking guy; at least he didn’t think so. His mother apparently had the same idea, as she told him he was very handsome almost too often for comfort. The saddening thought of the bean plant receiving more attention than he sprang from the fact that Dean couldn’t make a serious decision for the life of him, something Dean had known to be true for almost five years now. Simple decisions weren’t too bad; deciding on a bad dinner was something he could live with. Choosing the wrong career path or woman to marry, those were decisions Dean would rather die than live with. It was this fear however, that ultimately led Dean to find true happiness in his life.

The clock of the old Ford van displayed four o’clock as Dean opened its driver side door and banged his feet off of the inner frame before stepping inside; a move that as usual, caused a large amount of rust to fall out of the hole in the car door that had been there since the first day he had started his grocery delivering position two years ago. He couldn’t help but wonder, with amusement, when the time would come where he would kick the van door clear off its hinges. This was not that time however, and Dean shut the door quite uneventfully. The van door scenario quickly faded from his thoughts as his attention turned to more pressing matters.

It was now two minutes past four, meaning that Dean only had fifty eight minutes left of his shift. Normally this would be a welcoming thought, unfortunately though, his last delivery was at Mrs. Ernhart’s place.

Mrs. Ernhart was a kind lady in her mid eighties who had suffered a ‘slip and fall’ accident a few years back that had left her in a wheel chair. The short, grey hair and eyed woman sued the city and won her case leaving her quite wealthy, making her Dean’s best tipper. He couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t slipped him at least twenty dollars on top of the bill she always placed inside a small manila envelope.
“There’s no need to check it,” Mrs. Ernhart would always say whenever Dean would attempt to open the envelope before leaving. His job required him to ensure that the entirety of the bill was paid for before leaving the customers home; and so he would open the envelope in the van, only to find the bill was not only completely paid for, but sometimes (usually near Christmas) nearly doubled. Dean would almost always catch Mrs. Ernhart smiling at him through her front window as he took the extra money for himself. He was positive that she thought it was a rather clever method of tipping, and he wasn’t about to disagree. He was thankful in fact, that she didn’t force him to open the envelope in her presence for he wasn’t exactly sure what he’d say to receiving a fifty dollar tip for delivering a (usually) small amount of groceries.

As much as he enjoyed receiving large tips, Dean couldn’t ignore the reason that was causing him to worry about delivering Mrs. Ernhart’s groceries this afternoon: Mrs. Ernhart was a talker.

Dean was used to awkward and lengthy conversations with elderly folk; he had been delivering their groceries for the past two years now. Mrs. Ernhart however, took talking to the next level at least, possibly two or more.

Dean had heard about her son traveling the world with the Navy at least a dozen times. He seen pictures of all twenty three of her grandchildren, a number he only remembered after hearing about them one too many times; and he had tasted her ‘world famous’ banana bread exactly thirty seven times now. These were tasty, but the fact that every time he indulged in one, he had to endure the seven minute story of how it wasn’t really world famous, it was just that Mr. Ernhart had always told her that if she were to ever enter the treat into competition, someone would surely recognize its greatness and demand that it be on the shelves of ever bakery and grocery store on the planet. Dean had to admit that it was very well made and that he never had a problem accepting the few extra slices that Mrs. Ernhart would offer him each week, but he still wasn’t quite sure it was world class caliber.

Preparing himself mentally for the lengthy and repetitive conversation that was sure to be coming, Dean rolled into the long stone driveway of the Ernhart residence at the end of the sixth concession, a lonely stretch of road ten or so kilometers away from Bay River, the town where Dean had lived for the past fifteen years.

As the old Ford crept down the winding drive that spanned half a kilometer, Dean noticed something unusual. The driveway hadn’t been cleared. Last night’s half inch of snow still covered the entire pathway, causing the van’s rear wheel drive to have little to no grip on the slippery terrain. Mr. McReedy, Mrs. Ernhart’s neighbour always cleaned her driveway for her with his pickup-mounted snow plow; especially on Fridays when he knew Dean would be stopping by. There was also a fresh set of tire marks leading to and from the house. Rather shaky differences in the two told Dean that whoever had been here had come and gone in a hurry.

When he had reached the front of the house and placed the van into park, Dean noticed that the blinds in the front room were still closed, something he’d seen only once before when Mrs. Ernhart had been sick last October.

Approaching the front door, Dean discovered a piece of paper with a large green blotch on it taped to the inside of the window. He knew right away that this meant that the back door was unlocked and that he should let himself in. Feeling rather uncomfortable about seeing Mrs. Ernhart sick (Dean had skipped her delivery during that week in October when she had previously been sick), he trudged back to the van, grabbed the loaded box of groceries and made his way around the side of the house towards the back door.

Mrs. Ernhart lived on a farm, but by the look of the house and property (after many renovations), had Dean not known this fact, would have never guessed it. The large backyard that ran out for a good two kilometers before meeting with the river, had been remodeled and landscaped to resemble something you’d most likely expect to run into in England during the eighteenth century. Dean had sat inside two of the three beautifully crafted gazeboes that after over four Canadian winters, still looked as if they were brand new, and consumed tea with Mrs. Ernhart who had amused him with horrible attempts at an English accent. The gazeboes now sat snow covered in the silent, gray afternoon, anxiously awaiting spring’s inevitable yet welcome return.

Dean pushed open the heavy oak door that led into Mrs. Ernhart’s country style kitchen to find all the lights off and a note on the table accompanied by the usual manila envelope and world famous banana bread. Sharon, Mrs. Ernhart’s normally vibrant Border collie, slumped into the room slowly, her head hanging low.

Dean had found it weird for a dog to be named Sharon, but Mrs. Ernhart told him that after seeing one episode of the Elephant show, a kids program from the eighties with three singers, one of whom was named Sharon, she just had to name the dog after her.
“It’s because they have such similar personalities,” Mrs. Ernhart had said laughingly after Dean had asked her why she still watched children’s programs at eighty three, “plus I think that I should be allowed to watch whatever I’d like, I’m old enough.”
Dean didn’t see the personality resemblance at all, but he laughed anyways.

Sharon the Border collie whimpered and placed her head on Dean’s lap as he sat down at the table to read Mrs. Ernhart’s letter.
“Some protector you are,” Dean muttered as the dog’s innocent eyes probed his own, “oh well, I guess man’s best friend is a fitting term.”

The letter was neatly written, which was uncharacteristic of Mrs. Ernhart, who was known to drop things quite often due to her shaking hands. Dean moved it into the light that was flooding in from the window and read.



Dean,

I’m not feeling very well today and my niece has decided that I need to visit the doctor. I didn’t want to go, but you know what your generation is like, never taking no for an answer.

Anyways, I’ve left the money for the bill (and a little something extra for you), on the table along with some banana bread. You can take the entire thing since I’ll be staying at my daughter’s house for the next few days and it’ll go bad anyways.

I know if you’re reading this you’ve already came through the unclear driveway and I want to apologize for that. Mr. McReedy is gone for the day and wasn’t able to get to it.

At this point there was a bit of scribbling on the letter and Dean guessed that something had distracted Mrs. Ernhart while she wrote. The following sentence proved Dean’s theory right.

My niece just rolled up; I’ll have to cut this short. I’ll hopefully be back before next Friday, but I wanted to wish you a happy Valentine’s Day and I hope that you have a wonderful week.

Sincerely,
Dorothy Ernhart

P.S: Could you feed Sharon for me? I forgot to this morning. Mr. McReedy will be stopping by to feed her tomorrow and the following days, I just don’t want her going hungry today.

Dean laughed at this last bit of information; Mrs. Ernhart had such an old fashioned mentality when it came to eating. Even though Dean had been continuously gaining weight since he had quit smoking almost a month ago, Mrs. Ernhart had insisted that he was withering away. She probably thought that if Sharon was to miss a single meal, the same thing would happen to her beloved animal.

Still smiling at the thought of Mrs. Ernhart disciplining her dog for disappearing from existence, Dean filled Sharon’s food and water bowls before grabbing the banana bread and manila envelope from the table. He thought about opening it then and there, but going against tradition just didn’t feel right, so he slid the envelope into his pocket, emptied the box of groceries and placed them into their rightful places before locking up and heading back outside to the van.

Giving the Ernhart residence one last look, Dean saw the front curtains part and Sharon’s head emerge from between them. She gave him a sad look, which Dean took as goodbye. He turned and opened the van’s door, then kicked off his boots on the inside frame as always, causing another rust shower. He hopped into the van, threw the banana bread onto the passenger seat, closed the open door, started the van and turned the heat on. When the heater’s fan had successfully started (it had been have problems recently), Dean reached into his pocket and removed the manila envelope which he promptly tore open. He found it weird that Mrs. Ernhart would always seal the envelope, even when she openly admitted that sometimes she’d do so only moments before Dean would arrive.
“It’s for good luck,” she had explained to him with a wink.

Inside the envelope was the correct amount for the bill, as well as something Dean hadn’t ever received. Tucked behind all the bills, with a small note attached, was a lottery ticket. He removed the tiny note from the ticket and held it up to his face to make it out.

I had a dream last night about all these random numbers. These seven stood out to me, so I figured I’d put them to use, you know, for good luck.

-D.E

Dean had never been a big gambler. He had played the lottery a few times, to no avail, and had visited a local casino once or twice. He usually opted to spend his money on more rewarding things, or stuff that would instantly satisfy him, rather than take a big risk which was unlikely ever to pay off. This lottery ticket felt rather lucky though; it was a gift, and Mrs. Ernhart had had a weird dream about the numbers… could it be a sign? Dean also found it odd that it just so happened that this week’s lottery jackpot was the biggest in Canadian history, thirty three million.

Dean suddenly felt as if this two dollar lottery ticket was the best tip he had ever received. He placed it back in his pocket, turned on the radio which happened to be playing one of his favourite songs, ripped off the foil covering the world famous banana bread and shoved a piece into his mouth before slamming the Ford Aerostar into reverse and heading back to work.

*

The Super Seven lottery, Canada’s largest, draws every Friday night at nine o’clock. Contestants are required to match six numbers with the six numbers the lottery machine draws, as well as a seventh bonus number to win the jackpot.

Dean sometimes felt almost certain that the game was rigged, but tonight that feeling was nowhere to be found. The excitement was causing him to struggle to remain in his chair in front of his computer after dinner. He was trying to take his mind off the time by joining in on a round of belittling going on in the chat room he normally visited for a least a few hours a night.

Being twenty two and no longer in school, combined with still living at home and being employed only part-time meant that Dean had plenty of free time on his hands. His friends however, were either busy studying at school some place far away or were working hard to further their hand-me-down careers and had little time to hang out with Dean like they used to. This didn’t bother Dean too much; he knew that the time would come where his friends would branch off and find their own paths, leaving him on his own. He actually welcomed the alone time and took the opportunity indulge in the many hobbies he had been neglecting over the past years. Reading books, playing videogames and watching movies were the things that now occupied Dean during his days off from work. These things however were only filler for the time between his visits to the chat room of an online video game that he had discovered two summers ago.

The game was of the musical genre, and rated players based on their ability to match corresponding keystrokes with music, but that wasn’t the main attraction for Dean. He had played the game many times and had almost lost interest in it. The site also had forums and a chat room where the game’s players could communicate with each other, compare scores or just hang out. The chat room had a solid group of regulars, people who, like the name suggested, would regularly hang out there. Dean was a part of this group and had grown accustomed to calling the fellow regulars his friends. The way he saw it, Dean had grown to know most of these people’s first and last names, their personal history, their personalities, their likes, dislikes and almost everything else you could know about someone. The only thing Dean hadn’t done was meet these people in person. The chat room supported web cameras and microphones which, as often as the regulars used them, made it feel as if they were all in the same room with Dean; they were his friends now, replacing the ones that had gone off to school and work.

As nine o’clock approached, Dean was in a heated discussion with three of his favourite people to talk to. Mike Waiverin, or MalcoWave as he was known in the chat, Anna Greye, or BananaAnn and Jason Billings, or ComRaider.

Apparently one of the chat moderators, people selected to maintain order within the chat room and ensure that the list of rules were not broken; had received word that Creepstar, an infamous spammer, someone who joins the chat with the sole purpose of repeating themselves saying the same thing over and over simply to annoy people, had recently broken through his banishment and was going around harassing members.

Dean had never had a problem with Creepstar, or CS for short; and was actively trying to defend some of the more abusive comments he had made to Allison, one of Dean’s favourite moderators, earlier in the evening. The argument was short lived however, with Dean being beaten into submission by contrasting information and lies CS had conned him into believing.

He quickly turned his monitor off when the lottery program came on. Dean didn’t want any distractions; he felt they would hinder his chances at winning, regardless of the fact that they were already slim-to-none. Dean had the sudden feeling that if he didn’t hear the numbers as they were being called, he would have absolutely no chance of ever winning. He turned the volume on his television up just as the spokesperson began.
“Good evening everyone,” Rod Rodgers, the same middle-aged, balding and slightly obese man who had conducted the lottery draw for the past fourteen years began, starting up the drawing machine and releasing the forty nine coloured balls into the tumbler, “the lottery numbers will begin rolling out shortly.”
Rod Rogers adjusted his tie as he always did while waiting for the coloured balls to fall into the collection plate beneath the lottery machine, an action that Dean’s grandma had voiced her theory on many times.
“He does it because he’s nervous that he could possibly win the lottery,” she had explained the last time Dean had decided to play the lottery; “the poor bastard would probably have a heart attack if he won anyways.”
Dean’s grandma was a blunt person, but also the most avid gambler Dean knew. If she was thinking that’s why Mr. Rodgers adjusted his tie every Friday night, she was probably right.

The numbers began falling out of the machine and Rod spoke up again.
“Alright ladies and gentlemen, the winning lottery numbers for the twelfth of February are as follows.”
Dean turned the volume up another notch and stood up to move closer to the television, possibly in a sad attempt to manipulate the numbers on the screen to his liking.
“The first number is: seven, followed by twenty two, twenty six, thirty, thirty one, and forty one. Tonight’s bonus number,” Rod added, waiting for the last number to drop from the machine. The final ball exited the machine. Rod picked it up and displayed it to the viewing audience.
“The bonus number is forty seven.”

Printed on his lottery ticket which was locked inside Dean’s gaze that was so penetrating it may as well have been an x-ray, and a little soiled with sweat from Dean’s hand, were the following numbers:

7 22 26 30 31 41 47

At that moment Dean was thankful his living room contained a sofa many of his friends had dubbed the most comfortable they’ve ever sat on; because as the idea of the past few minutes sank in, his vision blurred and he collapsed upon it, ticket still in hand.

Wow, long, but it still maintains a remarkale semblance throughout. One thing though, you referred to people alot, just by their name, it might be just me but maybe you could trying mixing it up a little bit. But as a whole, nice

I thought it was cool. I liked the way you set down the tone of Dean before the lottery drawing. I can't wait to see what happens next. ^_^

FINISH THIS

Alright, finally finished with Chapter two. It's roughly as long as chapter one, maybe a bit shorter. It's still in the... uneventful category which definitely is no fun but certainly necessary. Anyways, here it is.

Chapter Two

The Best Valentine’s Day

February always has a day that is completely out of sync with the rest of the month weather-wise; a day where the sun shines bright, the temperature is record breaking and the breeze carries with it the sweet aroma of the approaching spring season.

That day came on Valentine’s in southern Ontario and Dean couldn’t have thought of a better way to spend four hours driving home from Toronto where he had just finished scheduling the payments for his thirty three million dollar prize.

The wind coming into the fully open window of the young man’s Mercury Topaz ripped through his rather unkempt, shaggy brown hair and rattled his glasses, a fact that he barely noticed until his eyes started watering, blurring his vision. Clearing them off with a quick rub, he rolled the window up a little before slouching back in his seat and savoring the events of the past few days…

After he was revived from fainting on Friday night, Dean has spent most of the night trying to calm his parents down. They had not believed him at first, and had demanded that he remain calm until they had verified his ticket. Dean found this to be a little insulting, yet he couldn’t blame them. After a few minutes of careful examination, Mrs. Kennells’ face was white as a ghost’s and she mumbled something about needing to sit down before heading into the living room. Mr. Kennells however, exploded into a joyous scream and picked his son up in a bone crushing hug.
“Can you believe it?” The burly, middle aged man bellowed into Dean’s unfortunately close ear.
“Yeah,” Dean began slowly, still feeling annoyed that his parents had accused him of lying about such a thing, “I thought you guys were the ones not believing it.”
“That’s hardly an issue anymore Dean,” replied Mr. Kennells, setting his son down forcefully before shoving a telephone receiver in his face, “we need to call the entire family, tell them the news. This is amazing!”
Dean gave his father a shrewd look.
“Isn’t it a little late for that?”
His father stepped in front of the clock he was gesturing toward and a stern look crossed his face.
“This is huge news, everyone will be thrilled!” The man exclaimed as he moved towards his son again.
“But dad, it’s half past twelve. Half of them will be in bed-”
The large man moved in and spread his arms again, threatening another massive hug. Rather than accepting it, Dean took the receiver from his father’s hand and dialed his grandmother’s number. As he expected, she had been asleep and sounded rather annoyed that her nephew, who rarely called her, had decided to in the middle of the night. Her mood, like the rest of the relatives’ that night, changed when she heard the good news and by the time he had fallen into bed at twenty after five in the morning, Dean was sure he had told the story about Mrs. Ernhart and the mysterious ticket at least a hundred times.

The next morning brought no comfort for Dean. The news that a Bay River resident had won the big jackpot had spread like wildfire and before noon he had fought through ten interviews and explained his story another two dozen times. It seemed that everyone was more excited about this than he was. It was the biggest jackpot in Canadian history and he was pretty much set for life financially now, but throughout the rest of the day, between taking phone calls and setting up the meeting with the lottery and gaming committee in Toronto the next morning, a winner in life was the last thing Dean felt like.
The sad truth that the newfound millionaire kept reminding his self of was that he, no matter how rich he now was, was still alone. What made it even worse was the fact that now he had a ridiculously large bank account, it would be twice as hard to find someone who was genuine; someone not looking to exploit him for his money. Interview after interview and phone call after phone call, Dean had to answer the question of whether or not he had a girlfriend who would be receiving a beautiful gift for Valentine’s Day from her millionaire boyfriend and by the time he hung up the phone on the last reporter of the day, a Michigan newscast affiliate who had been rather rude, he felt like tearing his winning ticket to shreds. Exhausted and sick of answering questions, taking photos, or even talking in general, Dean flopped into the backseat of his car and was asleep before his brother had even made it to the highway.

When he awoke the next morning, Dean found himself staring into the canopy of a four-post bed that upon further examination turned out to be king sized and covered in silk sheets. He sat up and reached over to his left, only to have his arm pass through air. Where his night stand would normally be in his room at home was another three feet of mattress. He turned to the right to find his glasses resting on a marble pedestal which appeared to be purposely reflecting the morning sun’s rays directly into his face. Upon further inspection, after putting his glasses on, Dean discovered that the light was not coming from the sun; the spacious room which he guessed was a penthouse suite contained no windows that had drawn back curtains; the light was being emitted from the pedestal itself.
“This room must’ve cost a fortune,” he muttered, climbing off the bed. The floor of the room was surprisingly warm and it only took Dean a second to realize that it was actually emanating heat. “Heated floors?” His voice was rising. “I’ll kill him!”

Dean began a brisk walk down the heated hallway floor in the direction of the dining area which was now taunting him with the scent of a wonderful breakfast. When the hallway joined with the dining area Dean had to stop a moment. The room had a table large enough to seat twenty people and looked to cost more than his car did. The white ceiling had to be at least fifteen feet high and strung down from it, suspended above the table, was a crystal chandelier more extravagant than any he had seen in his lifetime. Sitting at the table, surrounded by plates full of delicious looking breakfast items, was Dean’s Brother Derek.
“It’s about time you woke up,” The older, more sophisticated version of Dean mumbled through a mouthful of food, “thought you were going to sleep through the meeting.”
Although people constantly mistook Dean and his brother as twins, Dean couldn’t figure out why. As far as he was concerned, Derek looked nothing like him. Where Dean had short, wavy, light brown hair, Derek had a greasy looking shag of black. Derek’s eyes were much smaller than his as well; something Dean guessed would give anyone the impression that his brother was suspicious of them. This was all aside from the fact Dean was the total opposite of his brother personality-wise. Derek wasn’t exactly the type of person to accept new ideas and change. He also rarely had anything good to say about anything. Dean had grown used to this, but a lot of people who met Derek usually ended up arguing with him about something within the hour. From the look on his brother’s face now, Dean knew exactly what had happened when they had arrived in Toronto, but he still humored his brother by asking about it.
“Well I figured we could use some luxury,” said Derek as he knifed another piece of French toast onto his plate. “It’s not like we don’t have the money now, right?”
He was right. Even if this room cost over a thousand dollars a night, it was now pocket change to Dean. He laughed out loud and sat down.
“Good point, now pass me some bacon.”

Throughout the course of breakfast, Derek explained (in rather impressive detail) exactly how the meeting with the lottery and gaming company would go down. Dean was expecting to hear that there would be all kinds of media there, but when Derek told him that there were rumours floating around of news correspondents from as far away as California coming, he dropped his fork.
“Why would they care about what’s going on in Canada?” He asked, licking the syrup that had now coated the tip of his fork “Is it honestly that big a deal?”
“I guess so,” his brother shrugged. He stood up and pushed his chair in. “The last thing we need is Americans thinking we’re even dumber than they already think we are Dean,” he said in a weary tone before stepping back into the hallway, “Don’t give them any reason to add another stereotype to their list.”
With that, Dean heard a door close, shortly followed by the sound of running water.
“Does he really think I’m that dumb?” he muttered, looking at his watch. It was a quarter to ten. He had only an hour and fifteen minutes left before he would be officially declared Canada’s newest millionaire. He stood up and followed his brother’s route into the hallway opposite of the one he had come down to reach the dining room
.
“There’s gotta be…” he thought to himself as he started opening doors. Hardly surprising was the fact that the suite had three bathrooms in it. What was mildly surprising however, was that they were all in the same area. Dean didn’t bother giving it any more thought. He entered the ridiculously large bathroom and showered.

The meeting had gone fairly smooth. There were a few odd questions, mainly from the American journalists, who had shown up in far greater numbers than Dean, or even Derek had expected. As he accepted his check and shook the hand of the lottery company’s president, he managed to mumble a question to him.
“So what’s with all the Americans?”
The tall, stalky man smiled at him revealing a set of blindingly white teeth.
“No idea son,” He leaned in closer. “Maybe it’s to show unity between our two countries.” Dean had to look away as a camera flash reflected off of the man’s teeth directly into his eyes.
“Oh, I see,” he said before pulling away.
The man called for a round of applause which quickly followed and signaled the end of the ceremony.

A few reporters prodded Dean with interviews, which he willingly accepted. His mind however, was stuck thinking about what the lottery president had said. Why would the states want to show international unity so bad? It couldn’t be because of the threats overseas, could it?

It was true that America had recently found itself in a rather unpleasant spotlight. They had just admitted to mistakes in their initial plans in the Middle East and had made their views on the Palestinian/Israeli conflict unmistakably clear. Was there something else going on that the rest of the world didn’t know about? Was America planning something else?

Just as a million different conspiracy theories started flowing through Dean’s mind, his cell phone rang, cutting the interview he was engaged in short, as well as tearing his thoughts away from nuclear warfare.
“Hello?”
“Hey Dean,” said a voice that almost caused Dean to fall out of his chair.
“Anna? Is that you?”
The voice on the other end of the line laughed.
“Of course it’s me…or didn’t you recognize the accent?”
Dean had always commented on the fact that, as much as she didn’t like to admit it, Anna had a southern accent. Being from Georgia, it was no surprise to Dean, but Anna had almost been insulted by his comical stance on it. Over time however, she had grown used to the fact that Dean poked fun at it regularly and she had even begun to do the same her self.
“I uh- I didn’t hear it,” Dean stammered, still shocked by the subtlety of the girl.
Anna almost never called him. There had been a few occasions, most of which were when Dean was feeling down, or had run out of minutes on his phone, but those calls were planned.
“So,” Anna said in seductive tone, “you’re going to do me right?”

This time Dean actually did fall out of his chair. Clamoring to get back up, he dropped the phone. After a few more seconds of shuffling around, he jammed the phone back to his ear.
“W-what did you j-just say?”
“I asked if you were going to do it Dean,” she said playfully.
He was now completely lost.
“Do what?”
Anna laughed again.
“Your dream vacation, remember?”
“Oh,” he responded slowly, trying to recall what exactly, this vacation was. When it suddenly came to him, he gasped.
“Oh! Yeah! Of course I’m doing it!”
He had completely forgotten about the idea. He had also mentioned it to Anna many times in the chat room. It wasn’t uncommon for Dean to bring it up every now and then; meeting with everyone in the chat had been a dream of his for a long time.
“So you want me to tell everyone then?” she asked in a poor attempt to hide her excitement.
“Yeah, tell everyone that it’s definitely happening!” Dean exclaimed loudly into the phone, receiving looks from the surrounding people, “I’ll be home by six o’clock tonight. I’ll go on and we can set everything up!”
“Alright, I’ll talk to you later then.”
“Okay,” Dean said before starting to pull the phone away from his ear.
“And Dean” said Anna, her voice suddenly gentle, almost angelic, “congratulations.”
Dean felt his heart skip a beat.
“Thanks Anna, I’ll see ya later.”

He hung up the phone and jumped for joy. Surprisingly no one around him found this odd. He had in fact, just won the largest jackpot in Canadian history; jumping for joy would be expected of anyone. What they didn’t know, was the real reason why the newest millionaire in Canada was so excited.

*

Dean lowered his window again and took a deep breath. For the first time in the past few days, no, for the first time in years, he felt alive. He was going to meet some of the most fascinating and quirky people he’d ever known. He was going to spend a whole week with them. He was going to meet Anna…

The car rolled down the highway, its revving engine giving off a melodic hum that, combined with the sweet smelling springtime air and the fact that he would soon be living his dreams put Dean into a state of Euphoria that lasted the rest of the way home.

Wow, it's really good so far. I can't wait for the next chapter