Goodfellow had been promoted to Manager of Assembly Line Microchip Thingamajigs. Charlie couldn't remember what the exact job title was, and had a feeling that even if he were told it ten times in a row, he still wouldn't remember. Anyway, whatever it was, it meant that his parents could buy the new house on the other side of town, which is what they always did when they came into some money—buy something that cost about one thousand times the actual value of the money that they had come into.

"More noodles, Charles?" His mother offered him a limp box of chow mein. Charlie shook his head. He hated being called Charles. His mother only called him that when she was either angry with him or when she was putting on airs. Since they had just moved into a new house in a ritzy neighborhood, it was the latter of the two.

"Why did you have to name me Charles?" he asked, frowning. "I don’t like that name."

His parents regarded one another with surprise. "It's a perfectly wonderful name," his mother said, moving the soy sauce across the table with a disturbed expression. "What's wrong with it? Prince Charles is called Charles, and he’s a prince!"

"Yes," said Mr. Goodfellow seriously, "and if it’s good enough for him, then it should be good enough for you."

Charlie looked disgruntled. "I don't like it," he said. "I don't want to be called Charlie or Charles or Chuck or any of those names."

"Well, why don't you go by your middle name then?" asked his father.

"Yes," agreed his mother. "Quentin is a perfectly nice name too."

Charlie threw down his napkin. "I'm finished with dinner," he said. Pushing away his plate, he stood up.

"Don't you have any homework?" asked his father.

"I did it," replied Charlie in a surly tone.

"OK," said his father. And then, turning to his wife he asked, "What's on cable tonight?"

"I don't know," she replied. "We haven't unpacked it yet."

Charlie left the kitchen and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. Closing the door, he stood with his back to it, deep in thought. Who was the strange old man who had threatened his life at the gates? What were those mournful, wailing voices upon the wind? And where had all those crows come from? Were they following him?

He passed to his bedroom window and serrupticiously peered down into the yard. Sure enough, the crows, still lurking in the dusky treetops, blinked scornfully back at him. Charlie threw across the curtains, looking concerned. What did they want? he asked himself. And why are they following me?

From downstairs, his mother yelled, "Charlie, your father hooked up the TV. Family Spending Spree is on!" Charlie rolled his eyes. He didn't even bother to reply. Family Spending Spree was the most inane game show on the planet. It involved grown-ups humiliating themselves by dashing around a studio set that was made up like a department store. These hapless individuals would leap around pushing shopping carts and answering questions in order to remove price tags from choice items like refrigerators, microwave ovens, and electric lawnmowers, while a cheesy, grinning host called Mr. Treebles flounced about them in a glittering coat, wielding a calculator and saying things like, "You've advanced to the Express Checkout Phase!" or "Sorry! Credit Card Declined!" Or simply kicking up one heel and saying, "Toodles!" It was a sad show for sad people, and Charlie hated it.

Sitting down at his computer, he turned it on and checked an online map.