I closed the door, and turned on the light to find everything as it should be: my tools in their place, my boxes packed with spare train parts and extra accessories, and of course, the train set itself – a 12ft square monstrosity on ½ inch plywood, raised on makeshift, but solid tables, with specific spots carved out so I could reach every inch of the set.

It resembled an area in the Swiss Alps we had once visited. It was raised in places, had four tunnels, a mountain peak, little skiers, and cable cars. It was exact. The fellow that constructed it had taken a lot of time working out every little detail. I was impressed in a professional appreciation sort of way.

I tossed the caboose on the table near the train, and walked to the back of the room where I pressed the hidden button which moved the massive shelf far enough to the side to allow me to slip by.

This room was small and red-lit, but as soon as I entered, closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and felt my manhood stiffen: I knew I was home.