Ollie steps off the bus in front of the Museum of Anthropology and Antiquity at about 10pm the day after the skatepark massacre. He's a wreck. Untouched hair, wrinkled clothes, unhealthy pallor and the classic ten-thousand yard stare of someone who's had the kind of night he'd had.
He trudges through the door, up to the front desk. His face frozen without expression, he mumbles to the receptionist. "Ollie for Dr. Primoria."