They won't use the gate, even when it's open. They jump the wall, drop down onto bent knees and set off running. If there is something to kick, they'll kick it. If there is something to break, they'll break it.
    ‘What's that then?’ They ask the man standing by the wooden egg.
    ‘An egg.’
    They kick it. And then they reach out to stroke its silvered wood, chevron-slatted, curved.
    ‘How do you bend wood?’
    He tells them, the best he knows how. And then asks why they come here, to this place, with its half ruined buildings, its concrete and rubbish and weeds.
    They shrug. ‘Adventure,’ one of them says. ‘Summat to do.’
    The man grins at the word adventure, because it is the self same reason he chose this place. They remind him a little of himself: years back, in another town, breaking into an abandoned house with his crew and finding, up in the loft, no walls to stop them from running the whole length of the street and back again.


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