Behind an old desk, Gary pivoted in his chair. His balding head glowed gently in the sunlight that fell through cracks in the dusty blinds of his 3rd story office. Noise from the city permeated without effort and filled the room with a pleasant distraction. It was unexpectedly comfortable, despite the stacks of paper piled high on nearly every surface. And while I secretly judged Gary as prone to distraction, at the moment he was focused intently on the book in his hand. It had a worn cover, and a single word shone in gold capital lettering across the front:

FEATHERSTONE

He turned the book over in his hands and appeared to consider its heft.
"Doesn't look like much," he said aloud.
I waited for a second before I allowed myself to make a response.
"Yeah," I said. He glanced at me. I held his gaze.
"How do I know you aren't pulling my leg?"
"You don't."
"So what if I say no?"
"Then you say no. And you never see me again." He appeared to consider this.
"I suppose I don't have a lot of time to think about it."
"I need an answer before I leave, Mr. Bushman."
"Then the answer is no. I can't afford this right now." He handed the book to me.
"I certainly understand. Thank you for your time," I arose from my seat, slipped the book into my coat pocket and reached for the door.
"I do hope you find what it is you're looking for," Gary said.
"So do I." I opened the door and made my way down the stairs to my car. I mentally marked Gary off my short list. The only problem was that my short list was now very, very short. And I was out of time.
As I pulled my keys out of my pocket, a black suburban pulled up opposite my Toyota. I saw a window roll down, something move through the crack. And that was it. Blam. Next thing I knew, I had been in the hospital for two months. Fucker shot me right in the head. Miracle, they called it. Whatever. Now I'm completely fucked. They got my book