On the public notice board hung a sign that read “We can help!”, nothing more. Some strange impulse made him pull off the tab with a handwritten number and stick it in his pocket.
Help with what? Sure he felt a little lost all the time, but so did everyone else, weren’t you supposed to feel that way in college? It was probably one of those religious groups hoping to save your soul or some such rubbish. Yet, he kept the tab of paper. Placing it on his night stand before bed and then convinced he would lose it into his wallet, in a panic in the middle of the night. Somehow it was important.
It took nearly a week of worry before he broke down and called the number.
“8pm Tonight. 34 Bakers Street.” a voice said before the line disconnected.

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