June 1938
The Convingtons were friends with many hunters, though none were as fierce as Gentry and Maryanne. As more and more trickled in with captives to offer for the Nexus, I watched their son drift into madness. Twitchy and quick-to-temper, he was never properly himself in any one moment, only half the man he had been. He always glared at his mother, ignored his father, and sought to drive me away. He no longer smiled. He rarely spoke.
He was no longer the golden child of the hunters.
That title now fell to me.