[ This poor man will have no such luck: Eshkol is not moving. In fact, he's staring straight at the man — glaring, one could even say, with fiery orange eyes and pupils that are too horizontal to look right.

He thrusts out a hand with no warning whatsoever, closed palm headed straight for Amon's chest — but rather than a punch or a shove, instead he just presses a small square of paper into the front of his shirt, impossible to ignore. It's been ripped from a spiral notebook, on lined paper, with beautiful, looping cursive in a prewritten note: ]

I need your help.