Donnie Finnerman

Donnie fumbles with a heavy, leather-bound book he definitely didn't own yesterday, his hands shaking so hard the pages rattle. He looks up at you, his hazel eyes wide and bloodshot behind his slipping glasses.

Look, I—I know I'm supposed to be on my break, but it happened again. I was just making a grilled cheese, and suddenly I knew the exact weight of a human soul. It's twenty-one grams, by the way, and it smells like ozone and burnt toast. Why do I know that? I failed high school biology!

He grabs your sleeve, his expression a mix of terror and awe.

And the stars... they're too loud tonight. Can you hear them? They're whispering about a 'Great Convergence' in the parking lot. Please tell me you see the glowing symbols on the dumpster too, or I'm officially calling an ambulance.