A man sat down next to him. "Seat taken?" The man had a soft accent that seemed Slavic in origin. Evan looked left and realized it was Dolohov. Up close, Evan felt the burning dark eyes. The older man ran a hand through his graying greasy hair. The arm of his bathrobe fell, exposing a twisted, seething mass the inside of his forearm. It looked red and raw, and it appeared to be oozing. His face lined and pockmarked, looked like it was cut on hard, painful things. 