Ryan dismounted his scooter near the intersection of 20th street and Madbury Avenue, eyeing the suspicious storm that was developing in the distance. Average humans have grown a tendency in their lifetimes to overlook storms as natural occurrences and ultimately ignore their meanings. Ryan's lifetime of teachings taught him to automatically key in for clues, such as the consistent dips in the nimbus formations. This wasn't a small storm, something had happened.

Hesitantly, as though some part of his being didn't want to go to work with such a storm approaching, Ryan reached into his dufflebag and pulled out a plain blue notepad. The kind you would buy at any drug store. He flipped open to random page, his eyes still on the storm and waited. When he looked down words had filled the lines of the page. Not of his handwriting, or a handwriting whose very curves insisted some sort of dictation.

The very words upon that notepad were the ones his soul had been telling him the entire time was true, that he had only hoped to be fooling himself otherwise, and they read, "Divine intervention."