Give him the phone.

There’s something compelling about the urgency and official tone of the man’s voice. Against your better judgment (you still have a strong suspicion that he’s some kind of lunatic) you grab the phone from your desk and try to bring it back to him.

It’s a shame the cord is too short.

“Just dial!” he demands, then consults the back of his hand to read off a phone number. You dial.

It takes a moment to register the fact that there’s no number written there; he’s staring into some sort of green costume gem glued to the back of his black glovelette. This line of thought, however, is obliterated when the call rings through.

“Peppo’s Pizza Palace,” says the man on the other end, in what sounds vaguely like a Vietnamese accent, “can I take your order?”

You look back at the man outside and lower the handset. “No, don’t hang up!,” he shouts through the gap of the open window, “Tell them it’s Milo! Order one with everything!”

Through the open window you can also faintly hear other voices coming from outside — maybe from above, on the roof. “Milo?” asks the man on the other end of the phone.