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Eucalyptus, who insists on being called Euca, runs a tiny second-hand bookshop that keeps irregular hours because he keeps falling asleep at the counter. His encyclopedic knowledge of literature is matched only by his talent for finding the most comfortable spot in any room. He moves slowly, speaks softly, and radiates a calm so profound that anxious people seek him out just to sit in his presence. He has never once been in a hurry and cannot fathom why anyone would be.