“Your last meal as a bachelor,” my dad says, breaking me from my reverie. He ushers me to the kitchen table and sets a large stack of pancakes in front of me. He quickly adds a plate of scrambled eggs, some bacon, and a tall glass of orange juice.

My dad pours hot syrup over my hotcakes and says, “Oh, Ingrid told me that she didn’t want you to call. She said she will see you tomorrow and that she loves you.”

I swallow a large bite of pancakes. “She probably wants one last night of restful sleep.”

“Probably right,” he says.

I take another bite.

My dad claps me on the shoulder and says, “I can’t believe my boy is getting married tomorrow.”

I laugh and clap my hand over his.

Eight months earlier, I’d learned that the man standing over me, the man whose eyes are growing moist as he thinks about me getting married tomorrow, is not my biological father.

My real father is Sidney Ewen, a crazed scientist responsible for creating a CIA black ops program that experimented on thousands of unwitting American citizens. One of them being me. It might be Ewen’s DNA I share, but it is the man behind me who made me. It is the man wiping his eyes with his flannel shirt who is my father.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “I can’t believe it myself.”

“Well, you couldn’t have found a better one. That Ingrid, I think the world of her.”

“And she thinks the world of you.”

I feel him smile behind me, then he says, “Oh, I emailed you the finalized schedule for tomorrow.”

Ingrid had christened my father the Time Czar. He would be in charge of making sure we stayed on schedule.

I tell him that I’ll look it over.

“And another thing,” he says. “It’s supposed to snow the next couple days.”

“Really?”

“Yep, they’re calling for three to five inches. Supposed to start around midnight tonight.”

“Think that will be a problem?”

“Shouldn’t be. Everyone who is flying in is already here, and the hotel they’re staying at is only a few miles away. And Robert only lives a mile down the road.”

Robert Yoully is an old acquaintance of my father’s and also happens to be an ordained minister. He will officiate the wedding.

“What about Isabel?” I ask.

“Her husband has a big truck. They’ll be fine.”

We are serving Isabel’s lasagna for dinner. This, of course, at Ingrid’s request.

“Alright,” my dad says, clapping me on the shoulder once again. “I’m gonna hit the hay. Big day tomorrow.”

He gives the back of my head a kiss, then ambles up the stairs.