"How do they ever know, Al?" Jon said, his voice openly irritated. Studying the symbol and re-reading the words, he flipped over the paper like we had, then tossed it down on the bar. "Sounds religious."
"Great," I said. "Because they're always the reasonable ones."
"Third Myth probably," he added.
"Third Myth?" I said, bewildered. "I don't know any Third Mythers. Not even in SF."
But Jon's words made sense, sure. The symbol of the three spirals...maybe that's where I'd seen it before. The note even referenced something about the number three. And even though I didn't know any of them personally, there was a growing faction of Mythers in San Fran, and they were pretty visible on the streets. They'd nearly come to blows with a bunch of Christians at the last rally I happened to witness on my way to work.
"Yep," Cass nodded, refolding her arms. "Definitely Allie-stalker material. Maybe whoever it is thinks they need to save your soul?"
"But why now?" My voice still sounded defensive to me for some reason. "We went to the hotel in a taxi. And then we came straight here...also in a taxi. I've probably been on the street for a total of four, fifteen-second stretches, walking to and from taxis..."
"And whoever delivered this asked for you?" Cass said. "You, specifically?"
I threw up my hands. "You heard the bartender, right?"
"Maybe it was the bartender," Jon said, still sounding irritated.
"Maybe," I said, glancing back at the swinging door.
But I didn't really think so for some reason.
Cass shook her head, still trying to make this funny. "Jesus, Allie. Your brain is like a sound only dogs can hear...only in your case, religious whackos and the criminally insane."
"Thanks, Cass," I said. "Thanks a bunch."
But Jon seemed to have had enough of the conversation. Probably because he hated the weird shit that always seemed to happen to me, he preferred to ignore it until he absolutely had to. He checked his own watch, which did work, and glanced at the door.
"I hate to say it, Al, but Cass isn't wrong," he said. "Jaden is more than thirty minutes late. Isn't that well past the polite grace period before the 'Get out of Jail Free' card for bailing? I'm hungry...and that famous deli is right down the street. Maybe we could get a few sandwiches at least and come back?"
"Deli?" My nose wrinkled. "At eight in the morning, Jon?"
"Eight-thirty," he corrected me. "And I was thinking bagel sandwiches. Maybe with eggs." He smacked his lips. "I still remember them from the last time we came to New York with mom. And all I've had is that crappy airplane coffee..."