A Life in Transition Clark was examining his entire life. Pretty much everything he currently owned was going under a figurative microscope, including his actual microscope. On the surface of it, going to college wasn't all that different than going to Sonora, in that both were institutions of learning where he slept more nights than he did in his father's home.
However, college was different. It was a fresh start. It symbolized his first steps into adulthood. He might come back here again, it might legally still be his 'permanent home' but it no longer really felt like it. His father's house in Maryland was his nest. It was a safe place. But it was his launch pad, not his residence any more. His summer project this year was to clear out his childhood detritus.
He had developed a flow chart for it. The first question at the top of the page was "Do I need this at college?" And this was followed by two branches for "Yes" and "No".
The follow-up question for No was "Do I need this at all?" If the answer to that was no, he put it into one of the boxes labeled "For Sale" or into the dumpster outside, depending on quality and value. Otherwise, if the answer was that he did still need it, the flow chart asked, "Is it too big for a dorm or my car?" If the issue was size, he accepted he might still need it and it was not going with him. If the answer was no, he asked "Is it useless but sentimental?" If yes, he accepted that there was no point in bringing it out to college but also that there was no need to throw it away yet. Dad had no immediate plans of repurposing his room so it could still be used for free storage. If no, he pointed the arrow back to the first question.
If he deemed that he did need it at college, the flow chart next asked, "Will it fit in my dorm room?" If no, he returned back up to the top. If yes, he asked, "Is it worth the gas money to transport its weight thousands of miles?" If no, the arrow circled back to the top. If yes, he asked, "Will I be devastated if it breaks during transport?" If yes, he pointed to "Will I be more devastated being separated from it for months just to keep it safe?" If no, back to the top.
The remaining answers for both of those questions led to "Are you going to need it before you leave?" The Yes flow led to an outcome box saying "Add it to the list of last minute packing items."
The No flow asked, "How many times have you reached this box?" The arrow for '2 or fewer' pointed back to the top. '3 or more' lead to "Pack it."
So far, his suitcases had his winter clothes in them and not much else. The list of things to pack at the last minute, taped to the wall next to the flow chart, was four 8x10 pages of paper long now with two columns per page. If one looked closely several items were on there multiple times. When Clark had realized that, he had started putting tags on his stuff to show they had gone through the process already.
His bed and similar objects were tagged in blue with black marker declaring "STAYS". His brush and a multitude of other items had a smaller yellow tags on them that said "GOES". Other items were pushed up against the wall and were tagged in red, reading, "FOR SALE".
It was into this color coded place of transition that Clark introduced John toward the beginning of August. "Don't mind the tags," he instructed, "well, unless you want one of the red tagged things, then it's yours, but otherwise, pretend I live in a normal room. Don't worry, Dad's got a bed set up for you over in the lab, so you don't need to stay in this mess. This way," he invited and led his friend over to what would have been a third bedroom in a normal muggle dwelling but which was clearly set up as a potions lab here. The work table was pushed over to one side, but the dents and discolorations on the floor showed where it normally stood in the middle clearly enough. On the other side was a simple twin size bed that was basically just a mattress and a fold out metal frame. It had Star Wars sheets and a comforter with the TARDIS on it, both artifacts of Clark's childhood.
"Make yourself at home," he encouraged. "Dad did all his brewing for the month last week, so you don't need to worry about him needing anything in here."
"So how have you been? You look terrible. Was it a rough trip? Do you need a nap before dinner?"