It was too hot, and too familiar—the waffle blankets, the chemical and human smells,
the hard surfaces of the metal bed frame and the plastic chairs.
My hands were stinging slightly from the gel, which had seeped into the cracks in my skin.
We walked together to the lift, and rode down in silence.
The doors opened at the ground floor and I felt my legs speed up of their own accord toward the front door.
It was one of those beautiful midsummer evenings—eight o’clock and still full of heat and soft light.
It wouldn’t get dark till almost eleven.
Raymond took off his jacket, revealing another ridiculous T-shirt.
This one was yellow and had two white cartoon cockerels on the front. Los Pollos Hermanos, it said.
Nonsensical. He looked at his watch.
“I’m going to pick up a carryout and head round to my mate Andy’s.
A few of us usually hang out there on Saturday nights, fire up the PlayStation, have a smoke and a few beers.
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