SJ Bradley

streets down.

He went, knocked on the door, and her nut-wrinkled face appeared, screwed up in the crack. She was old, about eighty. “Can you mind Hana today?” he asked.

Looked through the gap into the hallway, and through tha

she said. Slammed the door. On the other side, bolt and chain rattled as though telling a story. Then she opened it, the sun spiking into her eyes. “Ok. Give her here.”

The civic hall was grey, broad, and didn’t seem to want him there. It was double the footprint of a secondary school, only one storey