On the seventh day He must have decided to play golf, and this is where He must have played. The way the terrain rose and fell, the way the bunkers were sculpted into the earth and the way the edges of each hole blended nonchalantly with the scenery made it feel like this place had existed since the beginning of time. The dew blanketing the four holes visible from the patio of the clubhouse was untouched except for a few tracks where deer, squirrels, or maybe even a fox had walked through. The low hum of walk mowers, weed eaters, and the occasional backfire from a gas powered utility cart were the only sounds audible except for the morning birds greeting the early autumn dawn. Marcus lifted his right wrist and glanced down at his Timex Expedition and pondered what his daily routine would consist of if events hadn’t turned out like they had in Statesboro. Would that routine include a train ride to the city in a business suit next to a thousand other business suits urgently commuting to an office defined by countless carpeted cubicles? His lungs filled with the fresh morning air that smelled of cut grass and Georgia pines as he inhaled deeply through his nose, then smirked as he realized he was happy with the current routine regardless of the path that led him here. Sweat dripped onto the front of his white caddy jumpsuit from the coke can as he lifted it to his mouth and chugged down the remainder of the potent mixture of syrup and carbonation. The liquid fizzed down his throat, his stomach juices gurgling and popping as the liquid reached his gut producing a bubble of gas that escaped from his lips with wondrous force. He inhaled deeply again absorbing the currently peaceful scene in front of him as if his mortality on earth would expire at any moment, turned to his left and trotted down the patio steps toward the caddy shack.