Mitch looked around uncomfortably on the sidewalk, glancing between the paper in his hand--a napkin from a bar in the downtown area--and the house in front of him. The addresses matched, and the house matched the bartender's description; a modest, two-story affair with a neat and tidy look to it. Shifting the strap of his duffel bag on his shoulder, he took a deep breath and tried with his free hand to fix his hair, trying to look at least a little presentable. After a second, he walked up to the house, staring down at himself as he knocked on the door. God help him if he had the wrong house... He'd probably have the cops called on him. A tall and somewhat imposing Myth, still the grey prison garb (minus the overshirt, which was tied around his waist) from his release the day before? That was enough to scare anyone, even the kindest stranger, if they weren't used to such visitors. He could only hope as he waited, then knocked again, that he wouldn't be kicked to the curb.