Across the Universe
By Laura Dearlove
It had been a normal Saturday before that. He went for a walk; the heat came off the pavements, bounced between the buildings, boxed-in and stifling. He wasn’t really heading anywhere in particular, down the high street, maybe toward the common, maybe it would be cooler on the grass or maybe it would just be crammed in with sunbathers and dogs and pushchairs and runners –
He was wearing yesterday’s t-shirt and he hadn’t done anything with his hair when he’d rolled out of bed. That was what he would remember, afterwards, that was what he would think of. If he’d known. Worn a fresh t-shirt, washed his hair, locked all his doors and windows, handcuffed him to his bed, surely something would have worked, even for just a day, just given him one more day …
Because ‘perfectly normal’ was about to end, for him, forever.
A hand catching his wrist. “Chris Stephenson. Right?”
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