One autumn morning, I sat in the light of my black candles attempting to write an essay on Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. After two hours of getting nowhere with Gorguts in my ears, I decided to go in early to work.

Sabine had been off all week with the flu, and I’d volunteered to write her summaries. “Don’t bother telling the client,” the manager said. “Just do them as if you were her.” I affected her excellent posture as I typed in her passwords (XaviToujours, lemortlemort87) and signed off her emails Sabine Dubreil.

Doing the extra work meant staying late, but with it being Friday I fancied leaving on time. The next inbound train would give me the head start I needed. After brushing my teeth and splashing my face, I hauled on a shirt with a cerise bow chosen by my mother. My makeup, usually minimal, could be nil; without Sabine around, nobody would notice me.

On the train, I buried myself in Exquisite Corpse by Poppy Z. Brite. Though hardly a course book, I allowed it as a public transport treat. By the next stop I was lost in the cannibal killer’s New Orleans. The shadow of someone crossed over me, but only when something tickled my ear did I look up.

A white feather was attached to a white wing, which was attached to a lime manga rucksack, which was attached to Sabine. She was head to toe in radiant white: bellbottoms, platform shoes, and a crop top. She grinned; with glitter on her cheeks, she didn’t look ill at all.

“You’re early!” she said.

“Going in early to do your work,” I said.

She pulled a shocked face. “That’s terrible.”

“I know. You’re bad.”

“Don’t go. You can skip it.”

“And do what?”

“Come with me.”

“Thought you had flu?”

She waved her hand in the air. “What I’ve got to do matters more than Thomas Telford and Balfour Beatty.”

“Really?” I eyed the wings.

“You have heard of Reclaim the Streets?” she said. “The global anti-capitalists?” I shook my head. “They’re anti-cars, anti–big corporations. They protest, but in the way of the future. Less of the hairy shirts, more of a celebration.”

I stroked the feathers; they were spikier to the touch than they appeared.

“This week is Toxic Planet by Islington Town Hall. In Africa, they’ve started GM crops. Farmers get the seeds for free but the plants won’t fertilize. So they get stuck in a vicious cycle.”

I smiled. “Didn’t know you were an activist.”

“I’m not.”

I raised my eyebrows.

She tossed her head. “I’m not dedicated.”

“Skiving off work seems pretty dedicated.”

“You should see what the others do,” she said. “Me? Sometimes, I do it. Get there before it starts, put out the leaflets, set up the tables—”