And his name still came, called from somewhere deep inside the North Woods, the one corner of Goblin even Walter Kamp couldn’t remove.

“Waaaaaalter?”

“Waaaaaaaalter?”

“Waaaaaaaaaaaalter?”

Happy Birthday, Hunter!

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To enter the Nash compound one took a chain of uneven dirt roads through the deep woods cloaking the beautiful northeastern residential section of Goblin called Rolling Hills. After so many unannounced twists and turns, incalculable shapes seen in the shadows, and myriad concerns with having somehow passed the address, great golden pillars peeked out from above the pines, declaring X marks the spot indeed. The gatekeeper, a robust and flaky-haired man named Duggan, sat in a luxurious oak stall with a golden flat roof, a gun at his hip, and a list of the names that had been okayed by Barbara Nash herself. A gorgeous cluster of evergreens reflected off the glass window he pulled aside to greet those who pulled up. The night of Neal’s sixtieth birthday party, a woman sat in the booth with him; a stunning, half-clothed blonde with a rainbow party hat upon her head, a glass of amber liquid in her hand, and what appeared to be an indefatigable smile upon her lips.

Duggan’s hair was uncharacteristically unkempt; even the top button of his shirt was undone. Some guests knew Neal and Barbara well enough to know that they’d ordered poor Duggan to dress the part. The part of fun. And how Duggan played along; he informed each new arrival he had a message from the house, then, as husbands and wives waited with clear curiosity in their eyes, he pulled a foghorn from beneath the window and blasted it in the face of the guests.

“No bullshit tonight,” Duggan said, and it was clear to those that knew him that these words were rehearsed. “And, um…leave the, um…sucky stuff behind.”

The blonde then asked how many people were in the car while stumbling out of the booth. She handed each guest a bag of confetti and instructed them all to dump it over their heads.

Nobody refused.

Roger Fletcher, one of Neal Nash’s oldest hunting buddies and one of the first arrivals for the big bash, laughed most of the confetti from his face and said to his fellow passengers, “Neal is trying to set records tonight.”

After Duggan flipped a switch, the white gates drew apart, and the visitors drove up the short and winding drive to Neal and Barbara’s astonishing home. On the way in, Marie Fletcher, wife to Roger, mother to none, remarked how wonderful the craftsmanship of the white geese of the gates was.

“I hate to say it, love,” Roger said, smiling so big his eyes disappeared. “But those were once alive. Only now…dead. And painted.”

And the other guests smiled with him.