Dear Juan! This is your friend that boring old fart Stan, coming to you from my new location – Xining, the biggest city on the Tibetan plateau – metropolis of the wonderful province of Qinghai.

Angus thought of himself as a scientist, so he was determined to come up with an answer to this riddle. Sure, the fish had hatched from the fluid he’d extracted from the roe. He’d shot the fluid into his blood-brain barrier by means of a long syringe. It hadn’t hurt nearly as much as he’d expected. In any case, he figured it was worth it, for science’s sake, to see whether he could mutate his brain cells to be more, well, fish-like. 

This was the new thing – dares. Antony had started it on Monday by writing ‘sonofabitch’ on one of the dark walls; it could barely be seen, but it was enough to entrain something. Heron had followed that by making himself throw up and being sent home for the rest of the day. Then Morrow had brought along his bad-tempered dog, let it roam around inside until Principal Jones came out and told him to get rid of the damn thing. 

I didn’t want to hit the guy. Fuck, it was New Year’s Eve. I don’t have anything against Australians. I didn’t see him do anything wrong. But when you’re in Paris with a group of prima donna cabaret dancers, you better be doing something to earn your place. ‘Jaaaack. That guy just touched me…there’. Fucking hell. What the hell was I doing here, lost in some club in the depths of Paris?  A short and narrow club that could fit thirty people at most. Was this exclusive V.I.P? It felt like a freight container and we were all being smuggled into the New Year.

The boy didn’t respond.  His eyes were locked on the wound in Hugh’s gut, the bloody hands that clasped and clawed at it.  “Kent!”  Bert shouted.  The boy’s innocent, wild eyes turned on him.  “You have to get help now!”  He said, gesturing wildly with his hands.  Without another word, the boy turned and began sprinting through the tall grass, back to town.