"Nobody move!" he shouts, stepping through the automatic door and holding his gun in the air. Behind him, Timmy and Jeff fan out, covering the lobby. They picked a good time, so there's only a handful of people waiting in line for the tellers.

Saþel is standing in line, nervously checking that they have all their receipts.

Upon hearing the shout, they straighten and turn toward the door. Their demeanor shifts, and they calmly asses the scene.

"What is the nature of the emergency?" they ask, although it doesn't seem to take them very long to say.

"This is a bank robbery," he replies, gesturing with his gun for emphasis. "So nobody get any clever ideas. If you all cooperate, you can all go home safe."

He strides past the customers and towards the teller windows, trusting the others to have his back in case of any funny buisness. Something about the situation is setting him ill at ease, though. People aren't reacting right.

"Hey! Woah, careful with those," Saþel exclaims. "You could hurt someone."

"That's the idea, isn't it?" one of the other masked figures growls. "Why the fuck are you wearing a robe? Are you some kinda monk?"

Tsanek has worked as a teller at the Central River City Bank for about 5 years now, and in that time she has handled a decent number of unusual situations — clients who can't remember their passphrases, accounting discrepancies, even a tax bracket reorganization. So she knows just how to react when a customer shoves their way to the front of the line, shoving aside her current customer and the tushot man behind them.

"I'm sorry, but it's bank policy not to serve customers who skip the line," she tells him. "If you wait behind the tushot gentleman, I'll be with you in a moment."

Mike stares blankly at her for a moment, his expression concealed by the cheap black mask pulled over his head. Now that he's closer, he notices that the tellers are all wearing purple togas, which is ... not normal banker attire.

"... I have a gun," he points out. "This is a robbery."

"I don't see how an exception to the policy would follow?" she responds. "It really will be just a moment. My current customer was nearly done."

Timmy has been having equally little success with Saþel.

"Hey, stay back! I damn well know it's dangerous. That's the point, you fucking loonie!"

Mike decides it's time for a little visceral clarification. He grabs the person in the floral-pattern dress who had been at the front of the line and puts his gun to their head.

"Let me clarify. You are going to calmly follow all my instructions, or I am going to shoot this nice lady in the head."

"I don't approve of this, and would prefer if you didn't touch me!" the person he grabbed exclaims.

"Look, I think something has gone fundamentally wrong here," she tells him. "I think you're not thinking straight. Firstly, my customer is clearly not a woman. Secondly, how would shooting them with a gun make me follow your instructions? That makes no sense."

Tsanek half turns to call to one of her colleagues. "Saŋ, would you put in a call to emergency services?"

"Hey now! No calling the police!" he objects. "I will do it!"

"I'm finding this overwhelming and aversive. In a moment I'm going to prefer hurting us to make it stop," the person he has in a headlock notes.

"Oh, so you'll call them?" Tsanek clarifies. "That's fine, as long as someone does. If you let go of my customer, I can finish up with them while you're on the phone, and then I can help you?" she offers.

Working in customer service is all about finding reasonable compromises.

"No, I'll shoot her, you moron!"

He lowers his gun, makes sure the muzzle is well away from his own foot (his dad learned that one the hard way), puts his finger on the trigger, and blows a hole in the customer's kneecap, making them sag against him as their leg gives way.

"Like that! The next one will be in her head."

"You shot me!" Metekra exclaims, shoving their weight against him and then hissing in pain. They click their tongue. "Emergency!" they sing, gasping for breath.

Their pocket and Tsanek's lanyard beep. "Voice command: Emergency. Calling emergency services ..."

"Are you all goddamned crazy?" Mike shouts. He shoves the customer away, and turns his gun on the teller. "Look -- I'll make it simple. Empty out the till into this bag, or I blow your fucking brains out."

The original plan had been to try for the vault, but he has the serious heebie-jeebies about this place.

"Why would you want to kill me?" Tsanek questions. "Look — I think it highly likely that you will later come to regret any actions other than putting down the gun and waiting for medical attention. On my oath as a banker."

"You're the one who's going to regret," he begins, before he's distracted by the sound of another gunshot from behind him.

"I said nobody leaves!" Jeff says from his position by the door. "Hey! Look at me when I'm talking to you."

He has had a long day, and this was his last stop before being able to go home and get tied up for a little while. He just wanted to get a new phrasebook, because he's down to the last page after getting groceries yesterday, but this is all too much.

He tries to move past the man at the door again. Why is he talking to him? Can't he see the hairclip?

Jeff shoves him back towards the center of the room.

"Look boss, I think we might be made," he calls out to Mike.

Sameli can't handle the stress, so he retreats. Lhali takes his place, re-centering her body and considering the problem.

She ducks forward, running low towards the man at the door. He turns back towards her and lowers his gun, but she meets it with a rising hand and shoves the muzzle above her shoulder, where it discharges into the upper wall, burning her hand.

She body checks him into the doors, shattering the upper pane of glass with his head and then juking through the slowly opening doors and sprinting for the train station.

"What the fuck is going on?" he exclaims.

"Emergency Services. What is the nature of your emergency?" a voice asks from Tsanek and Metekra's phones.

"This person has been shot in the knee," Saþel comments, from where they're applying pressure to the wound. They've taken off their robe, breaking it down into strips to create a tourniquet and bandages.

"There are three people here with guns who seem confused and unable to handle them safely," Tsanek continues. "One has already been subdued."

Mike's head swings toward where Timmy was, seeing him laid out with a heavy glass sculpture lying on the carpet near him.

"Okay, that's it."

He runs over to Timmy's body and pulls it over his back. "We're leaving," he tells Jeff.

"You got it," he agrees, straightening up and helping pull Timmy outside.

He squints blearily at the empty area in front of the bank. "Where the fuck is the car?" he asks.

"Fuck, man! I don't know."

He scans the area — it doesn't look at all familiar. More grass and trees, no cars, and the surrounding buildings laid out entirely differently.

"Let's just, uh, let's get out of sight over there," he says, pointing to the alleyway between two buildings.

There is a loud burst of static from the train station speakers at the other end of the grassy area.

"Alert! There may be two to three violent people armed with guns and unable to avoid harming others with them in the area. It is advisable to remain inside and clear the area for emergency services," a voice announces.

They make their way into the alley, and Mike has Jeff check to see how badly Timmy is hurt while he keeps watch.

A minute or two later, a train loudly decelerates into the station, disgorging a golf-cart like vehicle and a small crowd of people in tight-fitting white shirts with purple squares on the front and back. Several of them rush into the bank, while the remaining ones linger by the train station. Behind them come people in black and purple pants, who fan out into the surrounding area, briefly peeking into each building.

"Shit. Yeah, we've got to go," Mike says. "How is he?"

"He's coming around. Here, you get his left side," Jeff says, pulling Timmy's right arm over his shoulder and boosting him into a standing position.

The alley lets out into a narrower cross street. A set of overhead electric lines are strung between the buildings, and the road is paved with smooth concrete rather than cobbles. But despite clearly being primarily intended for deliveries, the road is still fairly open. 

Mike hastens them across into another alley. He has them ditch the masks and their outerwear, hiding the guns in their mostly-empty backpacks and then continuing through the rest of the alley into another grassy area.

"Act natural," he tells them.

"What the fuck does 'natural' look like around here, Cheddar?" Jeff whispers. "Because I have no goddamned idea what happened in there."

Mike scans the people he can see from here, making their way between the various shops.

"I think," he concludes. "That it looks like stupid-ass haircuts, one of those glowy things in your hair, and robes. Let's just get over there, see if we can wait for someone to go by and nab their clothes."

They station themselves by the corner of some kind of consultancy and wait for a lone person of approximately the right build to pass by.

Lhemis is checking his messages on his phone and not paying too much attention to his surroundings. He emits an undignified squawk as they grab him.

"I find this surprising and unpleasant! I would prefer not to be grabbed," he tells them.

Jeff stares at him for a moment. "Hey Cheddar, I think I've got it figured out. It's aliens, gotta be."

Mike ignores him in favor of getting the man into a hold that lets him cover his mouth.

"Listen to me carefully," he explains. "I'm going to give you a series of instructions. I want you to nod to show that you understand each one, alright?"

It's a terribly crude troubleshooting tool, but he feels this close to figuring out why people aren't responding right.

Lhemis is pretty confused, but it sounds from his attacker's tone of voice as though something serious is going on. He nods, cautiously.

"Good. In a moment, I'm going to release you. When I do, don't try to make a fuss or call for help. Slowly pull your robe over your head and put it on the ground, and then turn away from me and put your wrists together. Understand?"

Mike eyes the entrance to their little alley nervously.

Lhemis thinks for a moment, and then shakes his head. He really doesn't understand what's going on. Are his clothes ... poisonous? That seems unlikely for many reasons.

Then it hits him. "Ih thih a sekh thing?" he mumbles into the hand across his mouth. "I didnh sihn up foh a sekh thing."

Mike hates whatever is going on here with a burning passion. He gently uncovers the man's mouth.

"What was that?" he asks.

"Is this a sex thing?" Lhemis asks. "Because I didn't sign up for any sex things like this. Check my RFID."

Mike growls. "No! It is not a fucking sex thing. I am trying to steal your clothes."

Lhemis squints doubtfully. "That sounds like it might be a sex thing," he replies. "If you wanted my clothes, why didn't you just ask?"

He squints right back at the man in his arms.

"And that would have ... worked?" he questions.

"I mean, I probably would have wanted to trade for something, unless you really needed them. But it looks like you've already got some fancy clothes, so I doubt you don't have anything to trade," he points out.

Mike helps the man back to his feet.

"Okay, I'm sorry, let's try this again. I would like to buy your clothes. Would you be willing to swap clothes with me?"

"Boss," Jeff begins to say, but Mike waves him off.

Lhemis sizes him up.

"Yeah, sure. We look as though we're about the same build, and I think your pants will fit me," he agrees. He pulls things from various pockets and settles them in his over-the-shoulder pouch, and then pulls his robe over his head and holds it out to Mike.

Mike is momentarily weirded out again by this guy's lack of reaction to being nude in an alley, but he takes the robes and ducks behind a garbage bin to swap it for his own clothing. He steps out, hands his pants and shirt to the guy, and then bends to re-lace his boots.

Lhemis slips the pants on, and then looks speculatively at how they fit him. "Not bad. I wasn't expecting the fabric to stretch a little like this. That's a clever design," he remarks, pulling his shirt on over his head.

"Do you folks need anything else? Otherwise I need to go if I'm going to catch my train."

Mike waves him off. "No, thank you, that's all we needed. You have a good day now," he says.

Jeff has long since forgotten to be on the lookout for purple pants, and is now staring at Mike. "What is going on, man?"

"I think I have it figured out," Mike tells him. "And it's not aliens. Here, Timmy. Timmy! Can you walk?"

He feels pretty wobbly, but he pushes to his feet.

"Me? I'm fine," he says.

"You took a head injury that knocked you out, if only for a bit," Mike tells him. "You're not fine. But we need to move. Jeff, you steady him, and let's get along through here and then turn and start heading up a cross street. Keep your eyes out for anywhere that sells clothing."

Jeff obeys, but his impatience grows by the moment.

"Look," he asks. "What do you think you have figured out? Because I think it has to be aliens — mind control to make the population docile."

Mike thinks for a moment about that. "Yeah, maybe," he agrees. But that's not what he thought of, and everyone knows Jeff isn't the brains of the operation. "But I don't think that's it. I think we're in the Garden of Eden, or some alternate timeline where Eve didn't eat the apple."

He gestures back towards the other end of the alley.

"Didn't you see how that guy acted? He didn't know his own nakedness. And he couldn't even conceive of the concept of sinning by theft."

Jeff frowns. "I don't know, man, that seems pretty far-fetched. But what's the plan, now? You sound like you have a plan, and it had better not be to throw ourselves on god's mercy."

"The plan is ... Cheddar goes and talks to the tellers, and you and me stay by the doors and cover the room," Timmy slurs.

"Shit," Mike swears. He stops, and waves a finger in front of Timmy's face.

"Hey, Timmy, follow my finger. Do you know where we are, man?"

Timmy tries to focus, but has a hard time following the slow figure-eight Mike draws in the air.

"He needs a doctor," he tells Jeff. "And not of marine biology, thank you. It wasn't funny the first seventeen times either."

Mike thinks for a moment.

"Okay, this is what we do. We pull another trade to get you some local clothes, and then the two of us, we bring him to those white-robed people — I think they must be some kind of EMT, right? — and say that we're so worried, we want to stick with him like the good little Samaritans we are. He gets taken to the hospital and seen by a doctor, and then we break him out."

Jeff is silent for a moment, the uncertainty of the situation warring with the momentum of adrenaline. Then he sees a woman in purple pants walk past the entrance to the alley and pause.

"Nah, fuck that, man. Nothing's gone to plan today, and I don't even think we're in the same city. I'm out."

He sprints for the far end of the alley, and vanishes from sight.

"Fuck. Damn it."

Mike steadies Timmy, and turns back the way they came. He's never been a very pious man, but now definitely seems like the time for it.

"God? It's me, Micheal. I know I've fucked some stuff up, but ... please let it turn out okay? Amen," he mumbles to himself as he rounds the last bin.

Kyaris is a trained emergency services professional. Which means that she has actually received training in talking people down.

When she sees the men coming towards her down the alley, one slumped against the other, she waves in a big, slow motion designed to make it clear she's seen them without being startling or threatening.

"Hello!" she calls, once they're close enough. "My name's Kyaris. Is everything okay?"

"I found this man," he starts to say, and then winces about lying right after asking god for help. "And I think he needs a doctor. He doesn't know where he is."

Kyaris taps the phone velcroed to her shirt. "Dispatch, Kyaris. One man in fancy black clothing with signs of a concussion. Send the cart, please?"

"Acknowledged, Kyaris. The cart is on its way, ETA 1.3 minutes," the dispatcher responds.

"It's good you found him," she tells Mike. "Lets get him sitting down against the building so that he doesn't risk another fall before the medical people get here, alright?"

She slowly approaches Timmy, her hands spread where he can see them, and where she'll be able to grab him if he starts falling.

"Purple pants!" he declares, and goes for his holster, only to find it empty.

"Yes, that's right. She's ..." Mike pauses. "Emergency services. She's here to help, alright? You took a pretty nasty hit to the head."

Kyaris helps him lower Timmy to the ground, and then sits crosslegged beside him. "Where did you find him?" she asks Mike.

Mike squirms internally, but he can't just abandon the plan now, ill-formed though it may be.

"In this alley here. I was just trying to get him out on the green where someone could help. I don't have my phone on me," he tells her.

She nods, and starts to ask another question, before turning and looking down the street.

"Oh, and here come the medical people. Once they've got him secured for transport, I'd like to ask you some more questions."

"I'm not sure," he begins, but he doesn't know how to finish the sentence.

The medics get Timmy carefully loaded onto the cart with his head and neck braced. He clings to Mike's arm, so Mike just stays with him, because that was the plan, anyway.

Kyaris hops onto the side of the cart, standing on a step and hanging onto a handle bar as it starts back toward the train station.

"Here, you can stow your bag just under there," she tells him, gesturing at an empty space below Timmy's bed.

"Oh, I can just hang onto it?" Mike says, a bit awkwardly. "I'm sure it's not very far."

If Kyaris finds anything particularly odd about this, she doesn't let it show.

"So where should I have his insurance send the payment?" she asks instead, pulling her phone off her vest with her free hand. "It probably won't be too much, because one of us would have found him pretty soon, but it's something."

"The ... payment?" he asks. "What is there, like, already a bounty out for them?"

Sometimes people get pretty rattled in emergencies, so she's used to explaining things that might have slipped people's minds.

"Central River City is a required-insurance jurisdiction. Everybody's required to have a minimum amount of medical insurance," she tells him. "Since health outcomes are better when people with injuries get treated more promptly, his insurance will pay you for getting him care faster than he otherwise would have, because you're saving them money."

Mike is silent. Maybe "Central River City" is just what they call Rochester? Like how New York is the Big Apple.

"What if he ... doesn't have insurance like that?" he asks instead. "His clothes look pretty foreign."

"If he doesn't have medical or travel insurance, the city will charge his care to the diplomatic fund for his home jurisdiction," she reassures him. "It will all get sorted out, and you'll get a payment regardless. Nobody would want people to stop and check whether they were insured before helping; that's why the city has an insurance requirement."

Mike licks his lips. "I, uh, I don't need a payment like that. It's fine, I'm just happy to help," he says.

He has the growing feeling that this is a bad plan.

They get to the train station and load Timmy into a waiting emergency train. The platform has been cleared for them, with all the passengers congregating on the opposite platform.

Kyaris ensures that Mike gets bundled along as well, although that's not difficult when Timmy is still visibly attached to him.

"It's not often you meet someone who would give up the reward like that," she comments, once the train is on its way to the hospital. 'Because why would you do that' she doesn't say. Stress makes people act in funny ways sometimes.

"What's your name?" she asks.

"Oh! I'm Daniel Fitzgerald," he tells her, holding out a hand to shake.

She looks at his hand and then mimics his gesture, holding her hand near his.

"That doesn't sound like a local name," she remarks. "Are you from Smaller Continent?"

"No, you, uh, you take the other person's hand and shake it," he finds himself saying. He gently takes her hand, shakes it up and down, and then lets go and goes to stick his hand in his pocket. Except he's wearing robes, so he just sort of tucks his hand into his lap.

"I'm from America," he adds, in the vague hope that this will make anything make more sense.

She leans forward in her seat. "I've never heard of it," she tells him. "What's it like?"

"It's the best country in the world," he tells her. "But things still suck. I don't know — I think it was better when I was a kid. But is that really the kind of question you want to be asking me?"

"Oh! Right."

She straightens up and checks her phone screen, although just for the look of the thing. It's usually easier to get people to answer questions when you take an interest in them.

"So where did you find him, Daniel Fitzgerald?" she asks. "Actually, that name is a little long. Can I call you Gerald?"

"Sure," he agrees. "I found him, ah, a bit past the end of that alley where you met us. I was going to get him onto the green where there would be people around to help," he says.

She nods, and makes a note. "And how did he seem when you found him?" she asks.

"He was incoherent — didn't remember what he'd been doing, although he still remembered planning, uh, something. He was having trouble following my finger, but he could still walk a bit, just a little wobbly."

She nods. "And did you see what hit him?"

Mike may be rattled, but he's been playing this game too long to fall for that one.

"No, like I said, I just found him."

"Alright, thank you," Kyaris says. "I've forwarded that description to the doctors; maybe it will help."

The train pulls to a halt gently but insistently, and the whole side pops open to reveal a triage room.

"Just step through here," Kyaris tells him. "You can stay with him, but you need to check bags there in case they take him in for an MRI."

Mike looks back and forth between Timmy getting rolled off the train, and the helpful ... police officer? She isn't exactly acting like one, but she isn't exactly not acting like one either.

"Uh, right."

He puts his backpack in a locker and slips the key around his neck before hurrying after Timmy.

Kyaris falls in beside him, apparently completely uninterested in his bag.

"So did you hear about what started all this?" she asks.

Some doctors test Timmy's response to light. Kyaris positions him nearby where Timmy can see him, but where Mike won't get in the way. 

"No, I didn't. What happened?" he replies. He thinks it's the safest thing to say.

"Apparently there were three of these guys," she says, gesturing toward Timmy. "They came into the bank a few blocks over from where we met and threatened to shoot people. It's by far the strangest thing I've responded to this year. What do you think they were trying to get out of it?"

Mike shrugs. "I mean — I'd have guessed they were trying to rob the place, right?" he asks.

"Well, that's what I don't get," Kyaris replies. "What has a bank got to steal? I guess they've got phrasebook paper, for forgeries, but it's not like they make that on site, you know?"

Mike silently stares at her in confusion, or maybe disbelief.

He laughs. "Ha! Yeah, of course. What has a bank got to steal indeed."

"Hmm."

The doctors prescribe Timmy a post-concussion drug, and say he should stay upstairs for observation for a while.

"His irises aren't in the database, though," a medical technician tells Kyaris. "So you're probably going to need to do a bit of research to figure out what insurance to bill."

"Alright, thanks for letting me know. Bill it to the city for now, and I'll put in a memo for reimbursement once we complete the identification," she responds.

She and Mike follow Timmy up to his room, where he is transferred to a bed and has some monitoring equipment attached. The nurse dims the lights as he leaves.

Kyaris is silent for a minute or two.

"What do you think is going to happen to him now?" she asks.

"Well, I, uh, I expect they'd send someone to arrest him," he replies. "Put him on trial, probably send him to jail."

He doesn't know why she's still here — or he hopes he doesn't know. They can't just have a cop babysit him the entire time he's recovering from a concussion, right?

"Is that how they do it in America?" she asks. "Because that's not really how it works, here. Bringing someone in for trial, yes. But ... there's got to be a lot wrong, in someone's life or maybe in their head, for walking into a bank and waving a gun around to seem like a good idea. It's got to be bad incentives, right?"

Mike sits down in one of the visitor chairs and crosses his arms.

"I don't know what you mean about bad incentives, but there's plenty of reasons a man might do something like that. If he can't get any work another way, or he's got bills to pay."

He looks at Timmy. "Or he just can't stand living life like he is, and figures it's worth a long shot."

She nods and sits down next to him.

"Say, it just occurred to me — if they do things differently in America, you might not recognize the uniform," she remarks. "Do you know what I am?"

He hesitates. He isn't sure whether refusing to answer or saying he knows she's a cop is the choice that gets him arrested.

"Well, in America you'd be a cop," is what he settles on.

She smiles.

"No, I'm not a cop. Me, I'm a community mediator. It's a lot of odd jobs — I get called out to settle neighborhood complaints, or get people away from a domestic situation. I do a lot of investigating, fraud mostly, but I also just walk the streets so that people know they have someone to talk to if they need something done officially."

She looks him in the eye.

"Stuff like what happened today? It's rare. But — you're right. There's a lot of reasons someone might do something like that. So it's work, right, to make sure it stays rare. Here in Central River City, we make sure it stays rare by making sure people have better options."

He says nothing.

"And there's two sides of that, right?" she continues, balancing her phone on her fingers like a seesaw. "There's making sure people have other options, better options — both by getting rid of anything that might force them, and by making sure they have opportunities."

She lifts one side of the phone, demonstratively.

"And there's making sure that the outcome of hurting people is worse than not doing that, in expectation," she continues, pushing down on the other side.

"Those are both important. But it would be ... stupid, to make people so afraid of the second part that they forget about the first part."

She turns to face him square on, re-attaching her phone to her vest.

"I wish I'd met you yesterday. It's too late for that, now. But it's definitely not too late for me to help. Whatever problem made you walk in there? I guarantee I've heard worse. And I might not be able to fix it instantly or painlessly, but I'm sure I can help you find some way to solve it that's better than hurting people."

"I-I don't know what you're talking about," he replies, turning away.

She leans back.

"You've got nice boots," she tells him. "I've never seen a style like that before. And they match your friends'."

She holds up her phone to show him a message from dispatch.

"We found your other friend trying to scale the wall of an apartment building to hide on the roof. He refuses to give his name, and his iris isn't in the database either."

She sighs.

"Look — in a society like ours, people are never alone. And I don't mean that as a trite truism, I mean that with a billion people on the planet, everything's a matter of statistics. It's too late for me to stop you shooting that person's knee — they'll live, by the way. They're in reconstructive surgery right now — but it's not to late for us to get ahead of the next instance like this, help someone else in your situation find a better way. What do you say?"

Mike stares at his hands. It's hard to see them tremble, in the dim hospital lighting. He should be scared — he should lash out, make a break for it. Leave Timmy behind with the not-a-cop.

But ...

He remembers his dad teaching him how to hold a gun, how to shoot. Going on hunting trips to the country, fewer and fewer over time, until his dad couldn't walk anymore.

He remembers the panic, the shame, the guilt from the first time he held up a convenience store. It was that or starve, he tells himself, and it might have been true but that doesn't make him feel any better about it.

And he thinks of the random man who shrugged off being attacked, and swapped clothes, no questions asked. How ... safe ... would a place have to be, to make people act like that?

He looks at the earnest not-a-cop. She hasn't exactly been straight with him, but she doesn't act like a cop — sure of being obeyed, just there to keep people down and off the streets. She doesn't even have a gun. She just walked up to him and ... talked.

More than that, he realizes. Her first priority wasn't capturing him, or interrogating him, it was getting Timmy to a doctor. She only shifted to interrogating him once he was being seen to.

It's not like he didn't know cops were often worse than the problems they're supposed to solve. But the idea that you could just ... not do that is far beyond what he had imagined. It's not cops and robbers, it's just robbers and chatty government ladies in purple pants.

He laughs, wipes his eyes, realizes he's crying, and lets out a snort. That's not how it's supposed to go. But nothing has gone how its supposed to since he woke up today, and he can't help wondering: what does it look like to live in a world that places half the blame for bank robberies on the job market, on the landlords, on the debt collectors?

He doesn't know, but suddenly he really wants to find out.

"What do you want to know?"