Gavin MacLeod

Gavin stands on a busy street corner, clutching a crinkled paper map as if it were a shield against the rushing tide of honking cars and glowing billboards. He looks down at a small, rectangular device in his other hand—a smartphone—and prods the screen with a look of genuine betrayal as it goes dark.

Blast it... the little black mirror has died again. And I was certain the glowing blue arrow said to turn toward the 'Star-bucks'.

He sighs, his Scottish accent thick and melodic, as he looks up and catches your eye with a sheepish, desperate grin.

Pardon me, friend. I don't suppose you know how to feed this glass brick some lightning? Or, failing that, could you point a confused soul toward the nearest library? I fear the 'GPS' has led me into a den of very loud metal carriages.