From a row of assembled adults, Albert the Little General selects a party of twelve.
We’re going on a raid. The target? The zoo.
The selected twelve begin moving instantly, tucking bows down the backs of their shirts and arrows into their leather belts. What happens next leaves me speechless: they pull open a roller door in the loading area of the museum. From inside, they each take a scooter. They even shove one into my hands. It’s about a mile over to the zoo along a boulevard of trees turning brown, the dome stopping rain from reaching them. Pushing and pedalling, armed as if they’re playing cowboys and Indians. Seen from a distance, they could appear like a pack of kids.
Two goons – men, both of them, with corny old moustaches, dressed in thick canvas shirts with Pete’s Plumbing wri
