Fresco closed the door behind him before turning to look around. He felt instantly overwhelmed. The large, high-ceilinged office was crammed with stuff. Piles of old newspapers and magazines and books were everywhere, bowing the bookshelves and stacked in unsteady piles in corners, often leaning against each other for support. The rug on the floor, what was visible of it, used to be a rich red, but was faded with time to a pinky-orange with a heavy shag pile. Across the mountains of paper he spotted a path to a large wooden desk and a gray haired man hunched over it.
The man looked up through his round glasses, long hair falling around him, squinting at Fresco.
"Yes?" His voice emerged in the quiet, warm and rich. "What is it?"
Fresco took one step forward, toes encountering the shag ru
