He had saved hundreds of lives. He had vanquished mythical demons, slayed dragons, defeated hordes of invaders, creatures of untold horror. As a gamer, he had brought peace to Earth many times. But this day was different. Nothing he had done before had prepared him for the mess in which he found himself. This was real life.

It was Thanksgiving, the one this twenty-two year old would never forget. It dwarfed Armageddon.

That’s what LMU junior Clayton Gaines realized as he hid from his relatives and other dinner guests at his parents’ home. The truth was he didn’t want to see or talk to anyone until the Xanax he stole from his mother’s medicine cabinet kicked in.

Under the best of circumstances Clayt hated being trapped with relatives. Mercifully, like the flu, he only endured this gut-retching once a year.

“Hey Clayt. How’s it going?”

Clayt was caught between his mother’s shabby chic credenza and his father’s oft’ confused brother, Uncle Earl. He replied with a unique smile, somewhere between absent and a deer in the headlights.

“Uncle Earl.”

“Damn, Clayton, you’re almost as tall as your dad. College obviously agrees with you. What are you studying?”

“Majoring in height with a minor in genetics.”

Clayt couldn’t help himself. It was true that in the last 18 months he had changed quite a bit. Sort of a late bloomer. Since high school he went from a rather rotund 5’8” chunker to his current 6’1” and a very solid 182 pounds foundation. His metamorphosis was certainly a welcomed, if not astonishing transformation.

Gone was the smooth baby face, replaced with a manly, trendy scruff. The only change he hadn’t experienced was in his eyes. They were still sultry, as tropical blue as Caribbean waters. When he smiled they illuminated through his long, dark eyelashes. It was as if they were powered by two ’D’ batteries. To Clayton’s own acknowledgement, practically overnight he went from an also-ran nag to a champion thoroughbred. Whether he could emotionally handle that sudden change was still TBD.

Clayton’s snide response on his height sailed right over Uncle Earl’s head.

“So, where’s your girl…you know the one…of course you know the one. You’re the one going out with her…for how long now?”

Clayt’s uncle hit every one of the painful notes that were burrowing through his head.

“It’s Bella and four years.”

“She here?”

Before answering, Clayton’s eyes darted around the room like Hans Solo’s inside the Millennium Falcon. He wasn’t looking for Bella, though. He sought his escape. He had an earth shattering secret to get out but not until the proper time. Living with it for three days has been killing him. He hadn’t even told his parents. Then again, a junior in college couldn’t be expected to share everything. But this was big – like finding out Darth Vader was your father kind of big.

“Good seeing you, Uncle Earl…”

Clayt slid by and targeted the French doors leading from the formal dining room to the outside. He knew a little hiding place in the backyard. It was his special spot from when he was a kid and needed a sanctuary from zombies, worm monsters, or other nefarious creatures of his over-active imagination.

He zigged and zagged as he navigated the gauntlet toward the outdoors. He stayed mostly in the shadows avoiding any more nosy guests as he surreptitiously fashioned his path toward the outside and his freedom.

On the move, Clayton overheard his Aunt Lillian talking to his parents, Steve and Fran Gaines. Lillian confessed she was concerned about Clayton.

“He seems a bit distracted, doesn’t he? Oh, and I haven’t seen Bella at the party. I hope everything’s okay,” she pried, hoping to dig some gossipy dirt and flit about the party for the rest of the evening, pollinating it with her knowledge, cementing her matronly mantle.

“That’s ODD,” Fran confidentially defended.

“We’re past spelling uncomfortable truths, aren’t we, Fran?” Lillian pushed.

“No, I mean ODD. – Oppositional Defiant Disorder.”

Lillian was amazed. She shook her head, “They’ve got names for everything these days.”

Steve Gaines, Clayt’s tall, thin and generally reserved father – a genial accountant who recently turned half a century old – jumped in, furthering the inane conversation.

“Even that TV doctor guy, Ozzie and Harriet or whatever his name is, did a show about it. Said it’s common among college kids these days. Fran and I are sure that’s where Clayt contracted his ODD.”

He emphasized the last three initials but it was uncertain for whose benefit.

Clayt smiled slightly, then realized the Xanax had begun working. Ordinarily he’d go over and argue there’s no such thing as ODD, but in his state, he just wanted to move on to his special place and think of the horror soon to face him. He bee-lined it for the door.

Immediately upon stepping outside he took a deep breath of the brisk autumn air. He stole a moment and weighed the pros and cons of delaying the inevitable, telling his family the tragic news. On the plus side, if he waited until after dinner, the brewskies he’d drink along with the meds he stole will have fully kicked in. It would also allow for the holiday turkey’s natural sleep-inducing drowsiness to take effect. Everyone would be so tired or stuffed they would be beyond listening to his end of the world scenario. If he needed further justification, after the meal the ‘oldies’ would be so busy looking for Pepto-Bismol and his younger cousins would be so distracted checking their Instagram or Snapchat, basically nobody would hear or pay attention to a word he said. His gentle lips formed a cunning, satisfied smile.

On the con side of waiting to share the tragedy until after dinner was it meant he had to endure the wait to get it over with. But, he thought it through and determined getting it over with wasn’t as weighty as his other excuses. This twenty-something began to relax which only lasted a few seconds. He was targeted by his mother who proudly circulated Fran’s ‘Special Canapés’ from her Reed and Barton antique sterling serving tray. Clayt succumbed to the aroma emanating from these culinary treats. Even the burden of his secret couldn’t stop this collegian from indulging on a few of these amazingly delicious bacon cups. Fran filled these little pork crucibles of heavenly delight with melted Gruyere cheese and topped them with sautéed onions. On top she sprinkled a few crushed pistachio bits for texture. The aroma alone was richer than Bill Gates on a good day.

“You know it’s a little chilly out here. You’d be more comfortable in a jacket.”

“Ma, I’m twenty-two years old, living in my own place and you’re still treating me like I’m five. I’ll be fine. I’m just getting some air.”

He knew it may have sounded terse, disrespectful. In his mind he knew he was sorry, but he just couldn’t get the words out. He had bigger fish to fry and what faced him was greater than good manners.

“That’s how it starts, you know,” his mother began. “First it’s no jacket, followed by sniffles, then a full-on cold which then turns into sinusitis and travels down to the lungs. While treating that respiratory ailment they discover you actually have mononucleosis, triggering pneumonia and a week later it’s sayonara. Or you’re one of the lucky ones. You only get addicted to some cold medication, a gateway to crack and go live in the streets which isn’t much better than dead. Trust me, either way it’s a closed casket and a lot of rubbing the rosaries. So, would it kill you to put on a light jacket?”

After that rant, something Fran was known to do until she wore you down and got her way, a relaxation set in – the bud-ding euphoria that accommodated his flourishing Xanax high.

“When’s Bella coming? I’m almost ready to serve” his mother inquired.

Instead of answering, Clayton grabbed two more appetizers and walked deeper into the immaculately manicured back yard. From the azaleas to the zinnias, everything was in peak bloom. On closer inspection he realized, due to the California draught, his parents had installed artificial grass. Not only that, but Clayt was stunned when he found out that all the foliage around the entire yard was fake, too. He appreciated his folks had assumed an ecological, personal responsibility, but artificial flowers and shrubs, he questioned?