Back at my sister Andrea’s flat, I opened a beer and sat down on the couch.

I should be thinking about the offer. Instead, my mind was replaying his words to me, complete with visuals of his lips moving. Think about it, Braith. Braith. I was named after a star footy player, like two other boys in my grade. I was pretty sure one of them was in jail.

The way Owen said it was different. Like it was special. Noble, almost. I took a sip and rolled back on the couch. Stop being an idiot, Braith.

The salary danced around my brain for a bit, followed by the real kicker. Relocation. Andrea had been in Sydney for ten years now, but I’d never quite made the move. If I did now, what would happen to Dad? He was practically a shut-in already.

I was still on the couch when Andrea came home, my half-drunk beer warm. She shot me a quizzical look and headed for the bathroom.

She came out of the bedroom with her hair in a towel and her phone in her hand. “Have you spoken to Dad?” she asked.

‘Nah, why?” I glanced down at my phone on the coffee table. Five missed calls?

“He’s won a trip, or something,” she said, tossing the towel down, “you should call him.”

Dad’s voice was vibrating with excitement. “It’s a ‘round the world cruise, all expenses paid! Every continent! For a whole year!”

“Dad,” I rubbed my face with my spare hand, “it’s probably a scam.”

“No scam, the cruise company sent someone to explain it all! They’ll pick me up on Tuesday, I’ve gotta pack.”

“Wait! At least send me the details so I can check it out.”

My phone buzzed. He’d managed to send me a folder full of well organised documents. I lay back on the couch and started to read.

 ***

The next morning I showed the documents to a travel agent, waiting for her to debunk the scam so I could call dad back before he ended up tied to a chair in some shed. The woman’s pitying smile turned to a shocked ‘O’ shape when she checked the booking details.

“It’s all correct, the cruise company has your dad down as a VIP guest. Apparently he won a raffle.”

The only raffle in the ’Bolt was held monthly at the bowling club, and it usually offered a roast chicken dinner or a crate of beer. Had dad been secretly online? What the hell else was the old bugger up to while I’d been polishing the counter at Barry’s Souvenirs?

I wandered through the city in a daze. No car. No job. No one to go home to, once dad left for his one-in-a-lifetime experience.

My feet took me to a familiar street, where the number ‘One’ was etched deeply into the sandstone edifice of Tenecore’s headquarters. What, when it came right down to it, did I have to lose?

This time I ignored the reception desk completely and swung straight out of the revolving door to the special elevator lobby I knew would take me to Owen’s--no, Mr Varanor’s office. I had to keep walking, if I stopped for too long my brain would catch up with me and force me to listen to all the reasons this was a bad idea.

Unluckily for my brain, the elevator opened almost immediately. I took a deep breath and stepped inside.

At the top, Bradley stood with his hands behind his back as though he’d been waiting for me since yesterday.

“I’d like to speak to your boss, please.” I tried to keep my voice steady.

Bradley’s knock had barely fallen when Gregory opened the door, grinning like the cheshire cat.

“Good to see you again, Mr Brewster.”

This was the conference room. It was even bigger than Owen’s office. Portraits lined the walls, men and women wearing old fashioned clothes, staring from their frames with a familiar, intense gaze. 

At the end of the long, long table sat the owner of said gaze himself.

Owen inclined his head. He watched as I followed Gregory along the vast plane of mahogany, eyes dark and unreadable. “Have you come to a decision?”

“Um, I’d like to take the job. Thank you for the offer.”

“Good.” He said softly.

His voice was mild, so why did I fancy I could hear the slamming of iron doors?

Bradley slid yesterday’s contract in front of me and presented me with black pen. It was heavy, and I looked at it in panic. A fountain pen? I was more comfortable with markers.

I scratched at the space below where my name was printed (how did they know my middle name was Ronald?) leaving an ink blot the size of my fingernail. I put the pen down like it was a loaded gun.

Gregory solemnly took the document and placed it in front of Owen. Instead of a fountain pen, he held a short, white feather. No way, an actual quill pen? 

The tip of the feather wobbled as he signed with a flourish. The wet ink caught the light, flashing like a dying ember.

We looked at each other over the table, and his eyes seemed darker than usual.

“It’s done.” He said.

Gregory coughed lightly. “Congratulations to you both. Sir, the Charity in Commerce luncheon begins in less than an hour.”