You're going to meet your contact under the tree. You normally wouldn't be meeting this fellow, but you need answers and nobody else is willing to give them.
As you near the magnolia tree, you see him standing in the shade, almost a part of the shadows. He's fiddling with something in his hands. You can't help watching the slender, peeling fingers turn it over and over. You wonder what might have ravaged the skin. A disease? A life of manual labor? You hope you won't have to shake hands. Then you feel awful for thinking such a thing about the one person who's gone out of their way to help you.
You come to a stop before him. He looks up. He hands over the object, nestled in a hand that looks so much like a ravaged paper sculpture.
"This is a matter of trust," he says, and he drops the object in your hands.
You catch it.