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5Anthony Baglio wasn’t sure what to do and it scared the s**t out of him. He, who always knew exactly where he was going to place his next step, what he was doing from one day to another, one year to another, had no idea what each new moment might bring. He liked everything organised in neat, tidy compartments, planned and listed; it was what made him a good agent, it was who he was. Flexibility was acceptable, and even the occasional bout of spontaneity—he planned for inconsequentials. But lately it seemed that his days were filled with big jumbles of unplanned inconsequentials, and he hated it. The latest had him on a plane from Sydney to Perth following up on yet another figment of information. Halfway through the flight and intent on forgetting the turmoil of his life for even a short