They all turn towards the two and a half men, however, as they finally work up the motivation to trek up the hill. The chauffeurs remain quiet, but share an identical expression of an almost angry perplexity; as if the driver, the hitchhiker, and the black teenager pose a threat to their citadel of comradely disregard for one another. The three stand out even more due to their lack of the requisite navy uniform, medallion cap, and black leather gloves pulled tight and crinkly around the palms.

The driver attempts an ironic smile, but it won’t stick. The hitchhiker tries to stare each driver down, but it’s hard when none will meet his eyes. The teenager merely watches his feet, his expensive leather loafers sticking in the mud. Their squelch squelch squelch are the only noise besides the distant party clatter to accompany them up the remainder of the walk uphill. He’s not wearing socks and the dark mud is crusting around his dark ankles. He consoles himself with a shake of the head and a reminder that if he works hard and does as he’s told, then he will someday become another Chantilly Laforge, or even bigger. The thought should make him smile, but it fills his stomach with a quavering chill. “Chantilly Laforge”: the words don’t dare ring through his head, but plunge deep into his marrow, where he can feel them at once giving his bones strength and filling them with ice.

The man-sized boy assumes this is what it must feel like to have a father: the perfect and horrifying combination of fear and respect. The result manifests itself in pure aspiration. Yet he is humble enough to recognize that he has a long way to go before he can fill those shoes. A few more steps up the main path, then a staircase into the entryway, and the soles of his feet are already slippery with muck.

The driver is getting over the chill lavished on them by the chauffeurs. He expects the reactions from the party guests to be even worse. That’s why he is surprised when not a single coiffed head turns to inspect them –not even a split second stutter in conversation- as the dingy trio makes their entrance into a blindingly white marble foyer. There are no markings, decoration, or furniture to distinguish ceiling from wall, nor wall from floor, except for a metal contraption hanging down in many different semi-cylindrical pieces. It hangs down three stories, or half the height of the entire house. It must be a lamp of some sort, though it’s hard to tell where the light is supposed to come out from, if there is any at all.

The walls are bottom lit in a diffused glow, though there appears to be no source for those lights either. The hitchhiker is dumbfounded, even if he were inclined to comment on the interior layout. He has never been in a room so white before. He wonders if it is supposed to simulate the entrance to heaven. There are two doors ahead of them; one to the left and one to the right.