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Leopold slumped even more and waited for whoever it was to go away. But they knocked again, harder, and he sort of had to give them credit for trudging up two flights of stairs in this cruddy weather. With an aggrieved sigh, he hauled himself upright and plodded to the door.

A very pretty young man stood on the little landing, looking less than thrilled.

He was slender, with straw-colored hair, eyes somewhere between gray and blue, model-esque cheekbones, and a deep frown.

People often frowned around Leopold; he tended to have that effect.

What was unusual about this guy, however, was that he wore a tweedy three-piece suit like that of a 1950s British schoolmaster. Or so Leopold imagined, anyway.

“I’m not interested in your God,” Leopold announced.

The man blinked and cocked his head sideways, a bit like a bird. “I beg your pardon?”

“If you try to convert me, it won’t go well.

Really, dude. Last guy who tried ended up quitting his church.

” Leopold tilted his head. “Or maybe that’s not your gig.

But if you’re trying to sell me something or get a donation, I’m flat broke.

And if you want my vote for something, I’m not registered. ”

He’d actually attempted to register a few times but was never successful. “Irregularities” in his records, he was told. Whatever that meant.

But now his visitor was shaking his head. He dug into his suit pocket for a moment and, when he pulled out a phone, seemed mildly surprised. “Oh,” he muttered to himself. “Well, yes, I do suppose it will work.”

It was one of the big phones that had always seemed rather impractical to Leopold. The prim and proper stranger fixed him again with that bright blue-gray stare. “Are you Leo Lane?”

“Leopold.” Shit. Now he’d admitted who he was. Maybe instead of correcting the guy, Leopold should have simply denied it.

The visitor nodded firmly. “Yes, excellent. Mr. Lane, we need to?—”

The rain started to fall so suddenly and so heavily that for a moment Leopold thought someone had aimed a firehose at them.

The man in the suit made a funny little yelp and ducked his head. Water had already plastered his hair to his skull, and… he had really weird-looking ears. Sort of pointy, like Mr. Spock.

“Mr. Lane, may I come in and speak with you? Please?”

Well, he seemed a bit odd but not dangerous, and leaving him outside in the downpour would be heartless. So even though Leopold had a thousand and seventeen reasons to say no, he stepped back and gestured for the man to enter, and then closed the door behind him.

The guy stood just inside the small apartment, dripping onto the floor, surveying the room with an expression of minor horror. “Was there a battle fought here?”

“Ha ha. Hilarious. Look, I know the place is a mess, but I don’t know you from Adam and you don’t have any right to criticize my housekeeping skills.”

If anything, the man looked even more appalled. “You mean you allowed your home to get… into this condition?”

C’mon. It wasn’t that bad. Sure, clothing—both clean and dirty—lay strewn on the floor and furniture.

Dishes, glasses, and packages of food covered the kitchen counter.

And there were unstable stacks of books and magazines and newspapers, and little collections of rocks and pinecones and dried flowers, and the table held three partially completed jigsaw puzzles, and one of his three kitchen chairs had a busted leg he’d been meaning to fix, and the houseplants on the windowsill had died from neglect but the pots were sprouting mystery weeds, and he had no idea what was in the sagging cardboard box in the corner and couldn’t remember how it got there, and… . Okay. But still.

“Look, dude. I’m busy. I don’t think you came here to tell me I’m a slob. Spit it out and then you can be on your way.”

He wasn’t busy. And this guy was very easy on the eyes, even sopping wet. But Leopold wasn’t patient, and also, something about the man made him uneasy although Leopold couldn’t quite put his finger on what.

The man made a visible effort to pull himself together, taking a deep breath and straightening his back. Before Leopold could demand to know what the hell he wanted, he cleared his throat. “My name is Crispin Eladrin Moss’caladin. I am a Curator.”

“Like… from a museum?” The curators at the Crocker Museum always chased him away from the art, as if afraid he might touch and contaminate it.

“No. Well, in a way…” Crispin tugged at the bottom of his jacket, looking extremely uncomfortable. “I collect certain specific items for the Office of the Lost.”

Leopold blinked. “Um… so you want a donation? Like I said, I’m literally broke. But I think I have a couple cans of corn somewhere. Or an extra blanket. Or…. What are you collecting, dude?”

Crispin sighed and held up the phone. It held a perfectly clear picture of Leo’s face, and not in one of his rare photogenic moments.

His hair in the image was lanky and unkempt—was kempt even a thing?—and his squinting brown eyes were pinholes in a washed-out white face. Too bright a flash.

Crispin cleared his throat, tugged at his collar, and swallowed hard. “I’m afraid, Leo, that I’m here to collect… you.”