The phone assault began precisely after Liana finished her first cup of coffee. The black rotary phone—the one Liana insisted on connecting immediately—shrieked to life, ripping the quiet calm of the Annex morning to shreds. Liana, mid-lecture review, frowned at the intrusion. Percy, standing by the window pretending to watch a passing streetcar, grinned. Right on time.
Liana lifted the heavy receiver with a sigh, her voice professionally reserved. "Dr. Wainwright speaking." A loud, booming, undeniably Hollywood voice answered: Ivan Reitman. He hadn't just heard the message Percy had forced Liana to leave; he was intrigued.
"Look, Liana, no disrespect, but the kid's message—your kid, Perseus—that baritone, the delivery? It's phenomenal. I'm starting a new radio serial for CBC, Stripes... sorry, Johnny Chase. We need a calm, deadpan computer voice. The kid's got it. Can you bring him to the CBC Broadcast Centre this afternoon? We'll cut a demo. This is high-paying, easy work, exactly what you said."
Liana, a woman who dealt with geological structures, was completely thrown by the speed and absurdity of the entertainment industry. She stammered a reluctant "Yes." Percy, having secured the perfect $7,000-a-month cover, returned to the window, his internal focus now tightening like a coiled spring for the next, much riskier, part of the day.
Liana left the apartment for exactly one hour to finalize the installation of her University phone line across town. It was the crucial, pre-calculated window. Percy, having packed his old California-surfer parka and a beat-up gym bag, moved like a ghost. He slipped out of the apartment, using the loud, wheezing furnace as his acoustic blanket against the creaky floorboards.
He hit the street, the cold instantly biting through his coat, but he didn't feel it. He was a human clock, ticking down the minutes. He found the bus stop, exactly three blocks away, that would take him directly to the Pearson International Airport Cargo Road.
Percy arrived at the vast, desolate loading area of the airport—a cold, confusing maze of containers and trucks. He walked with a determined, fifteen-year-old confidence, despite the enormous risk. He located the specific, forgotten chain-link fence section that he had calculated in his vision. Tucked under a loose support bracket was the small, unmarked box from his L.A. logistics contact—the "Californian Gold" shipment.
Percy didn't hesitate. He grabbed the package and, within seconds, slipped the gym bag—heavy with $25,000 in clean Canadian cash—under the same bracket. The initial seed money for the gold caper was secured. The exchange was silent, fast, and completely untraceable. He immediately boarded the return bus, the package now nestled deep in his backpack. The cold cash felt like pure, high-stakes victory.
Percy was back in the apartment, breathless but successful, just ten minutes before Liana returned. He moved like a practiced secret agent, immediately sealing the new package and stashing the $25,000 in his largest, most innocuous dictionary—the one Liana never touched. He was back at the window, pretending to be absorbed by a math textbook, when Liana slammed the front door open, an air of flustered disbelief surrounding her.
"Perseus! That was insane," she announced, shrugging off her heavy coat. "The phone line is set, but Reitman just called back—again. You have an audition at the CBC Broadcast Centre at four o'clock. A voice-over. This is completely absurd, but he was so insistent. Wear your nice sweater."
Percy looked up with a perfect expression of teenage neutrality. "Okay, Mom," he said, closing his textbook. The absurdity of the situation—his mother oblivious to the black market cash sitting ten feet away, while eagerly driving him to his perfect cover job—was almost too much. The $25,000 was his first down payment on destiny, and the CBC gig was his bulletproof alibi.
The adventure was officially underway. They had the cover, the initial capital, and Liana was perfectly distracted.