From the author: His fear leaves him as he brings his face even closer, inches away now. He can hear his skin sizzling with the exposure and his hair whips, aching to be drawn into the maelstrom. He forgets everything. Forgets Jennifer. Forgets Cal. Forgets everything but the white light streaking past his eyes, its answers so close. It would always come to this...
The dying sun piss-stains the can a warm yellow. Adam kicks it again and it bounces off the gutter, skitters to rest on a pavement crack. A year’s bad luck. Fucking can. He kicks it again with venom. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with.
Beside him, Caleb’s become bored with the game and twirls a stick as he reads graffiti on a nearby wall. “So just talk to her,” he says, the late-afternoon light stretching his shadow over the RoyBoys gang-tags peppering the nearest hipster sharehouse.
Adam concentrates on the can. He’s heard it all before. Doesn’t need another lecture. Especially not from Cal.
“Jesus, everyone else knows,” Caleb keeps pressing. “The way you stare at her. Like a puppydog.”
The other boy laughs. “Just try it. It’s easy.”
Distant sirens clog the dirty air, smog hanging over the backstreets of Fitzroy like low-slung cloud. Adam stares past the crumbling terraces along Napier Street to the spread of skyscrapers of the city beyond, their steel...
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