Twelve
Björn threw stealthy looks to his left and right while he was trying to hack the gas station’s Wi-Fi. They were in a hideout not far away in-between some bushes. It had been long ago since Björn had seen a city from the inside. A feeling of nostalgia spread through his chest at the sight. He had grown up further north, in Oslo, and fled to the Highlands in a refugee boat. The passage he would never forget, he was certain that the sea would swallow him whole that day, black and ruthless, cold and salty on his tongue and his skin. The London suburbs were new to him, they harbored a trace of the world long gone with those little houses and shabby underground clubs, the rusty gas stations that offered burgers and cola as if copying the nineties Hollywood movies. They possessed a charm
