You are a man, 33 years old, 6' in height, of slightly above-average constitution, and pale complexion. Your hair is colored a dark brown, cut "short but sharp," as you say to your barber, and your face is peppered with stubble.

You tend to be a tad rough around the edges, perhaps a bit of a flake at times, but you have a good heart. In your line of work, you are more often than not operating as a lone wolf, but this does not bother you. You have never married, as social relationships for you have always been fleeting. You do hope to have children one day, but - you would not admit this to anyone - you feel very unprepared and ill-equipped for such a task.

Your name is Ian Holden. You are a private investigator stationed in Milton, Pennsylvania.

It is 8:56PM, Friday, June 26th, 1981. Almost time to close up shop for the night. Clients have been rare as of late - you're running on fumes. As you watch the night street through one of the windows of your 2nd-floor office, you hope to yourself that you will not have to find another line of employment.

At last, after a very quiet day, you hear a single, crude knock on the door of your office. This, obviously, startles you a little bit, and you quickly turn around in your desk seat.

>Investigate door.