Abruptly, something smacks Fakir in the back of the head, bouncing off and landing on his desk. It's a ball of wadded-up paper, and its source, apparently, is the blond man a few desks back, who's grimacing at his copy of Alice in Wonderland.

Who is, if possible, even worse off than Fakir is. Flatly refusing to read from a book had forced a veritable avalanche of wrathful books to descend upon him, and now, though he's still in the outfit he'd come in, he was sporting more than a few casual papercuts on his face and arms.

Assuming Fakir isn't annoyed enough at the interruption to open up the note, because that's what it is-- inside is a sentence scribbled in crabbed, unsteady script.

Don't fall asleep. Read.