No one knows.

FrankJ sweeps down the stairs occasionally, preceded by dark, ominous organ music — or, on special occasions (of which there are few), a fanfare of trumpets. All are amplified through some pretty cool recessed loudspeakers.

And then — if one is lucky — one gets a cookie. Sans walnuts, of course. Or raisins; or ceremony. Or flour, sugar, or expensive butter.

The visitation is done. He brushes the dust of these “cookies’ from his fingertips, and the triple-thickness oak door clangs shut behind him.

And another year goes by.

Someday he will learn to breathe like Darth Vader.