He turned around.
The guard was the one with the neck tattoo, the phoenix curving up past his collar. Up close, he was younger than Mike had clocked from the door, mid-twenties, with the particular build of someone who spent enough time in the gym to be useful but not enough to be the first one sent into a room.
He had a folded paper in one hand and the other resting near the handle of the fixed blade at his hip, not drawn, not threatening, just where his hand lived when he was walking.
"Give it here," Mike said.
The guard held out the paper.
Mike took it with his left hand and looked at it long enough to register that it was a form with handwritten entries and a signature line at the bottom, and then he looked back up at the guard with Big G's flat expression and said, "You got a pen."
The guard reached into his jacket with his right hand.
His left hand dropped away from the knife.
Mike dropped the paper.
