His office was well beyond its normal state of chaos when she came to see him. Papers everywhere, dog-eared books and bizarre looking magazines splayed open and marked up. Moldy takeout food containers from Valerie's Vegan Vittles strewn about. Even though it was a large room with a high ceiling it felt cramped and crowded, and it was clear that the occupant, much like Nature, abhorred a vacuum. The place smelled like it looked.
The only visible clue that it was a sunny, Spring day outside was the single ray of light that fought it's way through a crack in a thick green window shade and gleamed off of the tarnished brass nameplate that read “R. Nevada, S.P.I.” perched on the dusty corner of his disheveled desk.
Nevada walked back into the room and started pacing back and forth. He gestured for Ms. McGill to sit in a chair by the desk. He was suddenly very interested in Joanna McGill's story.
“Let me guess,” Nevada said. “You believe that your father's mind is being, let's say, influenced by some outside force, am I correct?!”
“Well, yes, I mean...how did you...”
“You think he's being controlled, that his strings are being pulled by some unknown puppeteer, possibly not of this Earth. Isn't that right Ms. McGill?!”, Nevada asked with the intensity of a prosecutor.
“I know it sounds...it sounds crazy, but...”
“And I'm guessing that you haven't approached any of the federal agencies or authorities about this, but instead have come seeking out a somewhat reclusive and uncooperative Strange Phenomena Investigator with a reputation for being a bit untidy and a pain in the gluteus maximus. And that would be because...”. He left the sentence for her to finish.
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