"Roy Travis."

That's who this is. Daniel points at him, an aggressive Oh yeah movement that draws the man's eyes. He looks high, or distraught, but when Daniel peeks into his head there's nothing but the off-putting litany of hostility he might expect. He hasn't seen him in the flesh in several years, and the man's usually clean-shaven, to his memory. Only a little younger than Daniel, but much better-looking, tall and broad with thick, straight hair that's gone shades of grey in an attractive manner. Often pulled back, but he has a disheveled quality to him, like he's been outside running.

"Don't you live in Florida?" —is somehow the only question he can think off, baffled, and for some reason this seems to completely floor Travis, who starts blinking wildly. "Nevermind," Daniel follows this up with. "Just fuck off, thanks."

Normally he wouldn't be so immediate, but he would like to avoid sudden bloodshed in this quaint little bookshop. His assistant, Jeannie, is making her way over with an alarmed expression, phone in hand and employee in tow, readying the intercontinental ballistic Karen missiles she was hired for—