Gunnar's suburban home

Gunnar slumped back happily against the front door of his suburban home. It was a relief to finally be free of doctors and journalists, to have only the specialists recommended by Dr. King to worry about. He felt thankful for the suit given to him as a gift from Margaret Shorthouse's TV station, though he knew he would need to pay a visit soon to a big and tall men's outlet at a nearby mall.

He also worried about work. He loved his home, but last time he checked it was afloat on a few thousand dollars of debt. Too, he hadn't felt that secure in his job when the RAIP, or "second puberty," hit. He wanted to check on that too.

He looked out the window onto the street. He had to admit, the neighborhood did dort of remind him of the wacky mythic Wisteria Lane from that **** Housewives show. Of course, no one actually looked like Eva Longoria or Teri Hatcher -- though Gunnar suddenly recalled the dream of the voice, the one which claimed that reality could be "sculpted" to his liking. He idly considered a few women he'd like to "sculpt" -- but then he laughed. Surely, those dreams were permanently behind him. It was time to get down to work.