Twenty-four, diamond, delta, V. That’s what it says on my ticket. I think I’m in the right place. The corridor is long, reaching far off into the distance. I can see the walls either side, just about. There are strips of orange lights running down the middle, which are dim even against the patches of night sky. The roof can’t be completely closed because of all the fumes — bursts of steam and who knows what other pollutants are everywhere. All of the corridors look the same, so it’s possible I’ve missed my turn. …

Ben Hawkins

23 ~ politics grad ~ amateur writer

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