"Does this look OK?" Flynn holds up a white top which looks ten times too small for him. To be honest I don't give a damn if he wears a bin bag. (He would probably prefer a bin bag because they are black.)
"Put it on." I mutter through clenched teeth. My back is on fire, every time I move it sends pure pain running through every bone. Flynn puts on the top,
"It's too small." He says and watches blood soak through the fabric in an instant. We're in a small room on what Flynn reckons is second floor. The walls are grey and filled with cobwebs but there's a cupboard filled with bits and bobs, like girl shirts, but I'm not going to tell him that the shirt is for females,
"I'm taking it off." Flynn says. Outside, the shouts of men drift past us,
"I think they may have realised you're out."
