The sun is coming up. Within the limitations imposed by the fact that this is Britain in winter. Let’s just say the sun forces itself to insufficiently illuminate the area.

It becomes light gray instead of dark gray.

The others are still sleeping. It’s cold in the hall. Music’s on. The advantage of life without legal guardians: listening to music. All day. Listening to grime, recognizing the stars’ voices without seeing the videos—Kozzie always sounds like a tin can being kicked across a field by angry children, Ruff Sqwad like heroes, Stefflon Don sounds like she’s not afraid of anything, Abra Cadabra sings like he’s seven feet tall, with that deep booming voice that lifts you up. That voice that’s ruined the larynxes of millions of white men who tried to pitch their voices down until they sounded like talking Ken dolls. Whatever. Thousands of acts, thousands of teens, squatting in masks on top of garages and who wanted so badly to be threats to the world. Who were bored. Who wanted to change the world. But the world has its own plan. It watches the humans, who became too important as a result of the stupid accidental discovery of fire, and who can’t handle their position at the top because they’re simply too stupid. Maybe the earth is the god everyone yearns for and she will bring peace to humankind and a break from all the self-improvement and growth, and from fucking up every possible thing. She will just raise ocean levels by twenty centimeters, puff out a few clouds, and free herself from all the idiots with a wet ice age.

Right.

Don goes to make herself a cup of coffee in the kitchen—they have a kitchen, well, a stove and a table. None of the children like coffee, but it goes with adulthood. Adulthood. Which had felt better in its imagined form. They had assumed they would all suddenly know exactly what to do. Which is absurd, since most adults are just big children who think that if they wrap themselves awkwardly in clothing and toast with crystal glasses and swirl wine around in their mouths they will be imbued with adult wisdom.

They’re not adults. Just little criminals.

“Would you like to tell

HANNAH

How you get money?”

“Happy to. It goes like this.

You find yourself a solitary, average-looking, middle-aged, well-to-do man. You approach him and say: ‘Hi, I’m new in the city and I’m trying to find a good swingers club. Not that you look like the sort of person

Who would frequent a place like that, but—

The men are always interested. Always. Blame it on nostalgia for their past virility. Morons.