“A kilogram of time, please.” The woman’s eyes loomed like two full moons through her thick spectacles. I put down my quill. I hadn’t seen her come in.

In my little cargo container, killers rest and tell me about their favourite books. They ask me to write a story. And I do, because sometimes, I see the horror and the haunt slip away. Just for a moment.

I am where the hurt people go. Not the crying, soft, gentle people. I’m not sure there are any of those left. No, I am where the killers turn when the buried piece of them that is still human reaches out, yearning for the light.