I storm up the fire stairs to the top floor, push the fire doors open and strut towards the wide, inviting aisles of Kmart, preparing to kill Otzi-bot and flush the asshole.
The gaps between the checkouts are spacious and welcoming.
My daughter, strapped hard against me, is sucking her thumb in her sleep.
They appear in rows. Ready to be commanded. Groups of four and six, arranged like the limbs on a pinball machine, guiding me inside, closing rank behind me.
Up the stairs, stumbling on weak hungry legs, I’ve been thinking of courageous words, some Boudica-style speech to say in a deep, unquavering voice. I’m too thirsty for courage, though. I greedily grab the glistening bottle of Fanta a nervous girl hands to me.
I twist the top off with strong fingers and gulp it so loud I can hear
