When God closes a door, he also locks that door. Tight. No one open that door. Welcome to Night Vale.

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Listeners, our son, Esteban, drew the best picture at school. Stunning really. It’s a house at sunset underneath a tall tree. You can see a family of three standing on the front porch next to a garden of lilacs and roses. A lone dove soars in the cloudless sky above.

You could put this thing in a gallery, it’s so good. Carlos and I don’t have time to open an artists’ studio – though I did see that there’s one for sale over on Galloway. It still has the original sign in the window that reads “Nice Nick’s Bail Bonds and Contemporary Paintings.”

Nice Nick was one of Night Vale’s best painters (and bail bondsmen) up until he retired last summer. He now spends his days relaxing by the copy machine in the Hall of Records, filing reports and returning passive aggressive emails from his supervisor. It’s so wonderful that now that he can dedicate all of his time to his lifelong hobby.

So Esteban’s drawing won’t be in a professional gallery (not yet, anyway), but it was placed dead center on our fridge. And we even had patrons over to view this masterpiece. It was my sister, Abby, along with Steve and their daughter Janice. They were coming over for a family dinner anyway, but in addition to Carlos’s delicious homemade Oatmeal & Feta Soup, they got a free art show.

More on the, quote, “gallery opening” soon, but first an update on a previous story.

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Many of you have contacted us with your concerns about the Boy we found who likes to hold knives and is also a younger version of the radio host Kevin from Desert Bluffs Too. He is doing fine… we presume. He disappears pretty regularly, and this is one of those times. But he always returns to Tamika Flynn’s house. She’s still fostering him until we can figure out a better option. He’s a wily one, that Boy.

So let’s get to your questions. Harrison K. writes: “That child seems really good at Knife. I, myself, am an expert at Knife and would love to have a chance to show him the myriad ways of Knife. So much Knife to learn about in my Knife School.”

Thank you Harrison. It was refreshing to get your email after reading dozens of others that told us we shouldn’t let a little boy have so many knives. I had tons of knives growing up – drawers-full, really – and I turned out just fine. There was only that single incident, but I wasn’t the one injured. Plus, the charges never stuck, because by all appearances it was an accident. So yes, I’ll pass your information on to Tamika, and she can reach out to you about Knife School.

Jackie F. writes: “Cecil, please let Tamika know that I’d be happy to help her with fostering the Boy. I’m really good with kids. I know I’m only 28 years old, but I’ve lived for much longer.”

Haven’t we all, Jackie? And I think Tamika would really appreciate the help.

Kareem N. writes: “Is that portal to the other desert still open in Carlos’s lab, Cecil? How big is it? Can you fit a few people through, or is it only little-kid-sized? Asking for a friend.”

Well, Kareem, Carlos put up a sign that says “DO NOT ENTER PORTAL” so while the portal occasionally appears, it would be impossible for anyone to enter it because the sign prohibits that.

Thank you all for reaching out. I’ll keep you updated as future events warrant.

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Back to our family dinner and Esteban’s incredible work of art. Everyone loved it. They’re trying to encourage their little nephew-slash-cousin in his blossoming abilities, but I think they also recognized it for the marvel of theme and concept that it truly is.

Abby said it reminded her of a drawing I did as a child. My drawings never made it to the fridge (nor Abby’s drawings). Our mom refused to look at anything either of us ever drew, because she did not want to understand anything deeper than immediate, tangible reality.

Abby was certain my old drawing was still around, so after dinner, we searched through some scrapbooks and family albums, and we actually found it. When I was only 6 years old I had drawn a picture of a house next to a tree. Though mine was different from Esteban’s in quite a few ways.

First, I didn’t use the same colors. Esteban’s picture was vibrant, while mine was mostly brown. Also while Esteban drew his with crayons, I had drawn mine in… I think watercolors? Some kind of rust-colored liquid…. or something… I hope it was watercolors anyway.

And the specific content was different in my drawing, too. There was a line of owls perched on my tree, and instead of a flower garden, I had drawn a shovel sticking out of a pile of dirt. I pointed this fact out to Abby and she said, “No, they’re identical. Look, Cecil.”

We went back to the fridge, and there were, indeed, a row of owls on the tree, as well as a shovel and dirt. This seemed wrong. I remembered Esteban’s tree as having a small round dome of green leaves, but looking at it now, there was no visible foliage, only craggy brown bark and jagged long branches. It was so large that it grew out of the frame of the paper.

Esteban’s owls looked so realistic. I could almost hear their familiar calls. You know that weird high-pitched buzz owls make? Like a dentist’s drill?

Everyone else retired to the living room to play Scrabble, the board game where you use lettered tiles to try to guess the name of God. It’s always been a family favorite, though we hadn’t played it since the time Janice came so close to winning that we all began to weep. We stopped her from laying down the final letter and put the game away for good. That was almost 10 years ago.

But while they were already halfway through their game, I was still in the kitchen staring at Esteban’s drawing. Had it changed? Was it still changing?

More on that soon, but first a word from our sponsors.

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###

Now back to my son’s perfect drawing. As I stood in front of the fridge staring at Esteban’s art, I noticed that the family of three was gone. Esteban had drawn me, Carlos, and himself happily standing on the front porch enjoying the beautiful day, but as I looked at it now, the many contrasting colors had all faded to a dull, reddish-brown. The flowers were gone. And now our family was gone too.

Then I noticed that they weren’t gone, but inside the house. Or at least two of them were. Their tiny happy mouths had distorted into lopsided maws. And the third member of the family, the smallest boy… I couldn’t see him anywhere. Not at first at least. And then I found him, crouched just behind the tree, which had grown even larger. And the row of owls on the branches had become one single owl. I knew that owl’s face. So familiar. I could almost hear the owl in my head. It sounded like a dripping faucet.

I looked back down at the figure of Esteban and realized he wasn’t crouching at all. Rather, he was crawling into the base of the tree. Into the earth. I wanted to shout, “No, Esteban! Don’t do it.” But I didn’t, because I understood then that this family of three was not me, Carlos, and Esteban, present day. It was my mother, Abby, and me, many many years ago. Too many. When I was the youngest. When I was Esteban’s age.

I ran into the living room, where the rest of the family was still playing Scrabble. Carlos had guessed the name Nikolai, which was only worth 3 points. And Steve was spelling Jeanette just as I announced my discovery.

The room went silent. Everyone looked confused, except for Abby. I could see some understanding, mixed with a touch of annoyance, in the lines around her eyes. And I asked, “Abby, do you remember anything about our dad?”

She sighed and told me to sit down. I knew this wasn’t appropriate for game night, but it was a story I needed to hear.

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More on this coming up, but now, let’s have a look now at traffic.

From space, you can’t see cars. And if you could see them, say, with a specialized lens, they would appear to move so slowly, even on a wide open road with no other vehicle around. Motion is relative to perspective. Time is a dimension, not a metronome. Maybe the traffic jam on Route 800 or Hubbard Ave or wherever you are is holding you up. Maybe you’re late to your daughter’s basketball game. Maybe you feel anxiety or claustrophobia or the rawest emotion of all: rage. Well, just know that there are people in the sky who wouldn’t be able to discern the difference between 1 mile per hour and 70 miles per hour. And isn’t it more comforting to know that it’s all relative? You’ll miss the first quarter of that game, but you’ll live for many more decades watching her grow and change. She’ll walk out that door one day and only come back a few times a year, at most. And you will experience a disconsolate joy, knowing you created a human being but that she is no longer yours. You have plenty of time.

This has been traffic.

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Abby said that she’s told me about our dad a million times before, but I don’t remember her ever telling me the story. “Abby, there’s something alive inside Esteban’s drawing, and I think it’s our father,” I said. “I need to know.”

“Cecil,” she snapped. “Please, can we change the subject.”

Steve, Carlos and Janice pretended not to hear our argument. Janice played the name Gustav and was awarded 11 points and a slight flickering of the stars. But instead of being pleased with herself, she looked concerned. “Where’s Esteban?” she asked.

We all froze. I gasped, seeing an empty spot at the coffee table where Estaban was only moments ago.

Then we heard Esteban. He was standing at the kitchen entrance, proudly holding up his drawing. He pointed at the tree and asked “I drew Grampa Gershwin?”

The branches weren’t even visible on the paper anymore, the tree had grown so large. It even blocked part of the house from view. I could hear the sounds of owls somewhere, like tin cans in a plastic bag.

Let’s go now, to the weather.

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WEATHER

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I don’t remember how much time passed – this part of the evening was a bit of a blur – but eventually we put away Scrabble. No one correctly spelled the name of God, but Steve got closest when he guessed Pete. That was worth 693 points and a volcano eruption in Croatia, and Steve won the game. We switched to Trivial Pursuit: Imaginary Edition. I’m pretty good at Trivial Pursuit, well at least at some of the categories, like “Animals that Don’t Exist,” “What Tony Blair Smells Like” and “Movies That Were Never Made,” but I’m terrible at the geography questions.

We played that for a bit. Janice talked about how school was going. She’s working on a sports medicine degree. Steve got a lucrative job offer from a competitor, but he really likes the team he’s built at his current employer. Steve is nothing if not loyal.

And Abby, well Abby’s Abby. We love each other, but I don’t know if we like each other. Still, when Steve came along, then later Janice, then Carlos, and now Esteban, it’s gotten easier between Abby and me. We have more than each other on our minds when it comes to family.

Carlos and I ended up beating Steve, Abby, and Janice in Trivial Pursuit. Even better, we won it on a geography question that I got correct. The question was “If there was a continent called Blup, how many countries would it have?” I said 19 without even thinking, and I was spot on. Lucky guess.

We hugged Steve, Abby, and Janice goodbye and carried our sleeping Esteban up to bed. I told Carlos I wanted to stay up a bit, and he said good night and gave me a kiss. I dug through our scrapbooks and albums again, looking for any photo or letter or card – anything – about our dad.

It felt like a full hour of scouring through these old books before I heard Carlos say “Cecil? Are you still up?”

I turned around and saw that it was dawn. Carlos was in the kitchen making a salmon and blueberry smoothie to start the workday.

I made myself some coffee and toast. As I did, I admired Esteban’s drawing once again. In the morning light, I saw the color had returned, as had the flowers and the dove and the happy family of three on the porch.

Carlos put his chin on my shoulder from behind and said: “He’s going to be a hand-to-god artist one day, isn’t he? Look at that composition. I see something new every time I look at it.”

I said “Yep. Me too.” It wasn’t a pleasant tone… impatient, annoyed.

Carlos asked: “You okay, hon?”

“Not really,” I replied. “I thought Abby was finally going to tell me the story of my dad. She said she would. But like always, she changed the subject. I don’t understand why she does that to me.”

Carlos stared into my eyes for several silent seconds. A concerned, but compassionate stare. Finally, he said, “Oh babe. She did. We stopped Scrabble for like 30 minutes to hear her story. To be honest, I’ve heard her tell it so many times to you, it’s grown a bit dull. Do you not remember?”

I did not.

The sunrise cast long golden stripes across the fridge, and I thought and I thought and I thought. I could hear owls in the crisp morning air, like a flower pot shattering.

Stay tuned next for The 200 Greatest Ad Jingles of All Time, presented to you commercial-free.

Good night, Night Vale. Good night.

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PROVERB: You can lead a horse to water, but don’t be surprised when that horse splits in half and two federal agents pop out and arrest you for trespassing in the Dasani factory.