Welcome to Seatemple, the bright sign announced as we drove up the curving entryway.

It looked like an average motel with a main lodge and a smaller strip of units with parking right in front. He stopped the car, opened the door for me and helped me out. Still a bit unsteady, I held onto the railing. In my bag, he had placed the wrapped object and the letter of invitation, along with something else he wanted me to have – a butter-stone, carved with an eye on one side and an ear on the other. The top and bottom both held carvings of triangles. Butterstone is so easy to carve – he marked it with his penknife, adding an unfamiliar glyph and a number 778-881-9519 -” in case you need to reach me,” he said.

“But that’s my own number,” I protested. “How does that work?”

“You’ll see,” he said cryptically, as he smiled and turned to leave.

I watched him drive away as I stood on the doorstep, then turned to open the door. I had plenty of time to look around after I rang the counter bell. Welcome to Seatemple Inn! signs were on doorways, at the front desk, and even painted on the windows overlooking the parking lot.

Where is everybody?