Boring. As far as teachers go, neither the looks, nor the delivery of the rather insipid Mr. Clover arrests my interest. But, on the other hand,one can’t expect the algebra to be interesting. Dad has always paid too much for these scholarly dinosaurs to bore me tasteless. While I tarry over my preschool childhood memories, the liberating sound of the clock ends the agonisingly prolonged chalk-talk. With the legerity of an ostrich, I speed over to the locker room to jump back into my casual outfit.

Down the road, Chuckles’s waiting for me at our usual spot by the Piper’s Wine Bar with a glass of white on his sinewy hand. Chuckles with his Oxford shirt tucked in and his skinny jeans that looked painted on, faked the guise of a twenty while exhuming the demeanour of a forty-year-old. Periodically, he showed his adolescence when he yielded to academy’s pressure for shaving his neat stubble that had sprouted into a scruff beard.

“Well, you didn’t lose any time, did you?” I ask.

“This is what I have been waiting all day,” Chuckles chortles with merriness of the Pinot GrigioVeneto had brought to him.I sit down, order myself a red from the waiter. He surveys me with swift but inoffensive gazes and then says “Yes mam.”“Hah, he couldn’t guess my age!” I triumph inside.

“Sooooo, are we still going ahead with it?” Chuckles asks me with a decreased pitch of tone.

“Yes. I’ve already told him to meet us at mine; if we don’t do it today, we’d never get to do it. Plus, he’s not taking any money from us, so we’d better be on time.”

“Well, let’s hope he doesn’t end up taking our livers instead,” snorts Chuckles at the prospect of such a notion.

After two glasses of Zinfandel, meeting up with a stranger I found online for him to teach us the choking game doesn’t seem more eerie than eating magic mints at your friend’s backyard.

Admittedly, the game would not be our first wild experience: Chuckles, my partner in mischief, and I regularly ached for adventures.

In the past, I had already once pulled him out of a friend’s birthday because of the unexpected effects of the nitrous oxide; where his teeth clenched, and his body contracted involuntarily, while everyone else laughed raucously, appropriate with the point of the drug. I had also once carried him out of a cinema because he passed out from marijuana. But he had been unproblematic other times such as taking Amphetamine before the exams, or doing Acid and Viagra combo at parties. For the sake of experience, no perversions were too bizarre for us.

As unnecessary as our shenanigans may be, it was the best way to escape the mundane nature of our lives. Our parents constantly expect from us to gain and maintain good grades just to look good in society and to speak of us like we are their achievements.

As the sun-rays shimmers behind the clouds, Chuckles and I near my home. There is a stranger in blue jeans waiting by the porch. “This has got to be our man.” I whisper to Chuckles.“Oh,” Chuckles sounds out his disappointment. I suppose it wasn’t going to be a trilby hat sporting, leather gloves wearing man with a hideously scarred cheek obscured under the lapels of the long black camel coat where the frills of it touched his western boots with a blinding silver toes just enough distraction for him to hold a cloth of diethyl ether over our mouths to drag our comatose bodies to a dungeon to carve our insides out like a turkey at the Christmas buffet.But in this case, the figure beholding us with a grain of impatience in his glimpses couldn’t have seemed more ordinary member of the public.

The man from the internet appears to be in the spring of his middle years; his overly moisturized crow’s feet shines under his classic tapered salt and pepper hair, which complements to his minimalist sense of style. Soon after we are acquainted, we assemble in the living room. I offer a cup of tea which the cyberspace guest, who calls himself Leon, accepts.

“So Leon, do you get many interests in your talent?” I break the ice with the first question.

“I do, but not from teenagers.”

“How come you agreed to help us, then?” Chuckles asks.

“Because your message came across as though you’d ask anyone who did this sort of thing, which, in honesty, is a little mad. There are many people on the net, and not all of them could be right for the job.”

“Oh, I know. The last time we met someone, he arrived with a range of equipment we didn’t even plan on using,” exclaims Chuckles.

“So is this your main job or just a hobby?” I ask Leon, whose cautious mien intrigues me as much as his occupation.

Leon’s cool face goes from dry to wry expression, “Let’s just say I it’s my professional hobby. I’m also trained in first aid and other emergency actions,” he says as he sips his milk tea with his right pinkie up in the air.

In an interlude, Leon’s eyeballs hops from me to Chuckles. We also scan him with scrutiny until he breaks the lull.

“Are you guys are a couple?” Leon raises his eyebrows with a slight trace of dubiety in his voice.

“We’re best friends.” I answer hoping that it wouldn’t deter him from showing us his expertise.

“Okay. Now. Do you understand the concept of asphyxia?”

“Well, it’s simply depriving one’s brain of oxygen, isn’t it?” Chuckles answers him and I nod in agreement.

“Okay. Now. You can choke someone to prevent air or strangle someone to cut off blood from passing through the neck of an opponent. So, the choking game, or the informed strangulation is the pressure on the neck that compresses the internal carotid artery which also interferes with pressure sensors which dilate the blood vessels in the brain and restricts the travel of blood to the brain cutting it from oxygen that maintains consciousness. The pressure also affects the vagus nerve which commands our body procedures when unconscious; this results in the heart’s decrease rate and volume of the heartbeat. If not done carefully, it can lead to cardiac arrest and even to fatality.”

Leon pauses at that point; Chuckles and I look at each other, baffled by our impromptu biological lesson, then look back to Leon.

“So when does the high come by?” Chuckles asks Leon with a keenness of a komodo dragon.Leon resumes his discourse, “After the reduced blood flow, under the reduced delivery of oxygen to the brain, the first feeling is light-headedness, which people also call ‘high’. When the pressure on the chest or neck is removed, a powerful surge of dammed up blood gets released through the carotid arteries into the brain. This known as the ‘rush’. At this point, braincells die. And the death of each cell, releases a chemical that gives the euphoric feeling which you are seeking.”

“Wow, so it emanates from your brain dying?” I ask.

“Yes, also note that if the brain starves for oxygen, its cells die and will never regenerate again.”

“Oh god, why everything interesting kills the brain?” Chuckles laments but it’s no time to be neurotic as I’m, for once, learning about something I want to know.

“How long after the compression unconsciousness follows?” I ask.

“Unconsciousness comes in a matter of seconds of continued strangulation. Dangers are that within three minutes without oxygen to the brain, brain damage will occur; and between four and five minutes death will occur.”

“What kind of damages we are talking about here?” Chuckles asks.

“Short-term memory loss and dysfunction of basic motor skills.”

“But these are only if we practice it regularly, right?” I seek reassurance.

“Well, it’s how many brain cells you lose, really. Now,” Leon draws in a breath, “do you still want to go ahead with it?” he asks.

Chuckle and I glance each other in acquiescence.

“Okay,” Leon grins, “now I’ll be demonstrating it while one of you watches it. Who wants to go first?”

I look at Chuckles who’s far too enthusiastic.

“All right. I’ll go first, but what shall I do?” Asks Chuckles standing up.

“Okay. Now. First you need to lie down because if you pass out while standing, there’s a good chance that you’ll hit your head and injure yourself at the passing out phase,” instructs Leon.

Chuckles complies, and he lies down. Leon kneels down next to Chuckles and after a little sheepishness, I take a knee too. Leon tells me that using too much force can damage the larynx and fracture the hyoid or other bones in the neck but you wouldn’t need any force with a consenting adult.“If you ever find yourself in an involuntary situation, tensing the neck muscles can reduce the effect of choking.” He advises me. I imagine my close combat skills against a burglar, where, it would most likely end up with him on the prosecution chamber.

Then, Leon asks Chuckles if he’s ready, Chuckles affirms. Leon goes on explaining prior to his live demonstration, “Okay. Now. The air chokes can be pressure to the windpipe. Again, a needless strong pressure to it can cause it to collapse and create irreversible damage. It is more effective to press on the lower neck, instead.”

And then Leon puts his hands around Chuckle’s throat, and compresses Chuckle’s airway, which clearly interferes with the flow of blood in the neck because Chuckles’ cheeks is flushed and he passes out within five seconds. Leon immediately releases and Chuckles comes around like an aunt who has a fainting habit at funerals. The whole thing happens in matters of ten seconds.

The newly awakened from his stupor, Chuckles has a confused look on his face that I couldn’t tell whether it’s a grimace or a grin.

“Oh, my god!” He bellows. “Tell me all what happened just now,” says Chuckles with eyes wider than his mouth.

“I was hoping that you could tell us that Chucks.” I reply.

“Well, nothing. I don’t even remember going out. It was all dark and then I woke up, all was just so quick,” Chuckles shrugs his shoulders.

“Well, how are you feeling?” Leon asks.

“Fine,” answers Chuckles widening his grin. Evidently, the state of euphoria brings a confused smile on the choke-game emergents as though they missed the end of a joke.

“Well, experiences may vary,” Leon looks at me while bearing his teeth up to his molars.

I step forward next. Chuckles kneels and I lie down this time.

Leon repeats the same information to Chuckles, “Okay. Now. Both styles ultimately cut off oxygen to the brain, but the blood choke does it much faster, as you’ve just felt.”

Leon presses his thumb against my trachea and within four seconds I pass out. Next, I wake up with my legs in the air and Chuckles shaking me while asking if I’m okay. I wonder why am I in such a position.

Perplexed, I ask “What happened?”

“We lifted your feet to restore the pressure to your carotid arteries quicker,” says Leon.

“You smiling softly as you passed out, what did you see?” Chuckles asks me with pupils dilated to the size of marbles.

“Well, it was like this chromatic sunburst you see when you are on psychedelics,” I force myself to remember the details.

“Do you guys want a fresh air?” Leon asks us.

“Good idea, I need to go to the loo.” I say.

In the bathroom, I notice a wet crotch on my black leggings. Did I just pee myself or was it the amount of epinephrine coming down? Leaving the bathroom, my legs are shaky to climb down the stairs, and my eyeballs playing tennis because of the severe saccades; so I hold on to the banisters and descend cautiously like a beginner in the figure skating. The after effects of the choke-game aren’t gripping me in any way.

I walk in the reception where Chuckles and Leon are chatting.

Leon excuses himself to the restroom also stating upon his return we’d practice on each other under his supervision.

Chuckles and I share a sardonic grin.

“I wonder how long it takes to blackout if a person holds their breath during the asphyxiation?” Chuckles asks with narrowed eyes. I’m hyped up, so I submit my body to the floor on that instant and say, “Let’s find out,”

Chuckles readily kneels and holds my neck, we both croak like a pair of mischievous geckos. I take a deep breath and then Chuckles begins to squeeze my neck: And then we both convulse with laughter. Chuckles then recomposes himself and screens his face with an eagerness by resting his tongue on the side between his canines.

A coruscating light bolts in front of my eyes and then my mom wakes me up, “What have you been doing to yourself?” She asks me, her head slightly slanting to right and her eyes glimmering in empathy; appearing sorry to look at me. She strokes my hair: Her touch has always made me feel loved and secure, so I smile. Just as I expect her to reprimand me she beams and takes my hand. I feel lucky that her mood is up as she probably will buy me some ice cream if I ask. I get up and we walk together in an indefinable width of path. I observe my mother: My mom has always looked beautiful; she knew how to dress for every occasion. This time, she wears her favourite cream laced frock which snugs her shapely legs which walk with the grace of a panther. Her ensemble coupled with her silky timbre, tranquilize my heart and I become free of all worries. I look up; the sun swelters my head, but it’s a nice day, and I feel superb. There’s an inexplicable elation which surrenders me. As me and my mom advance in an unfamiliar pathway, my steps feel lighter. We turn a corner out of nowhere, and suddenly our passage becomes dreary: I look on my side, there’s a young man sprawled out unconscious with his mouth ajar. Next to him, an empty syringe. I’m not sure if he’s breathing. I scan him in horror and ask mom what happened. Her lips are knitted, she doesn’t reply but there’s a grave sadness in her dimmed eyes. I feel powerless for being unable to help him, but we continue on our way. Not long after, I slow my pace down to see a woman sedentary on the sidewalk. The glaze of her eyes faded, her cheeks sunken along with her fragile frame. Her lips are pale and cracked. She doesn’t look at us as her gazes are fixed somewhere I can’t pinpoint. It’s as though she’s become a living dead. There’s a rucksack next to her, ridden with holes. I wonder if she had deserted her home. A few short steps after, I see a mob of policemen standing over a boy crumpled on his knees, his head is down. One police seems to inspect a rope. What has happened to the world? How can one hurt themselves so deeply? A haste of epiphany grips me: The more it makes sense to me, the shallower my breath gets. The hair on my skin rises despite the warm weather.I quicken my steps to run away from this boulevard of self annihilation. My mother is in front of me, she is still wearing a grave sadness masked with a glare that accentuates her worry lines.

I ask her the reason we are here in a weeping voice and if we can go back to our house? We hold hands. My gazes fall on my tired feet, how little and pathetically they move? Then I look up to see a slow revealing light shining directly in my retinas which dazes me.

“Welcome back” greets me a friendly female voice.

I open my eyes and come across with a doctor and two nurses standing beside me. An odour of insulin reaches my nostrils and then I see that I’m laid on a hospital bed. “How are you feeling?” Asks the doctor. Just then, an ache storms into my head; I open my mouth to tell her that but my sore throat doesn’t comply and gives out a senseless noise. I look at the doctor with begging eyes for her to explain me what’s going on.

The doctor spares no details, “You died,” she states.

“I.. died?”

“Yes, you’ve been in a coma for two days; After cardiopulmonary resuscitation, you had a cardiac arrest because of hypoxia which resulted from oxygen deprivation, then you sank into a coma. Now don’t get agitated when you see yourself in the mirror for the first time.”

Out of all the information dump the last sentence worries me the most. I asked to go to toilet but the nurse won’t let me alone, so she calls on the other one for help. They both hold me from my arms and ask if I am ready to get up and walk. Half way to getting up I feel disoriented with a nauseous neuralgia. The nurses count to three and on the third, I get up slowly. I am tired like I’ve run miles in an incline on the running machine. My feet act separately from my will as if I’m learning to walk.

In the bathroom, I want to see myself before anything else: I have haemorrhages in my eyes, the whites of my eyes have become red sea around the island of my pupils. I wonder how I came to look like a homicide victim.

In the afternoon, they bring me lunch. It is mainly a thick tomato soup. Although I am thirsty, my throat feels like it’s been scrubbed with a wire sponge and I also have tremors on my hand which prevents me from holding the spoon properly.

After lunch, I have a visitor; it’s Chuckles. He has deep purple rings, and he seems scraggier than usual. As he hands me the bouquet of varicoloured tulips, “Sorry,” he says.

“Chuckles, what happened?”

“As we were counting how many seconds it would take for you to lose your breath, I held your neck for 25 seconds; and then you gasped and your feet toppled to the side. The next thing I know, we have difficulty in waking you up.”

“Well, I died.” I said with a burning desire to reprimand him.

“Yes, I know. The police came took my statement.” Chuckles’ voice trembled with distress. “Where’s that guy? What’s his name?”

“Oh, Noel, turns out, he’s an off duty marine officer. He was the one who drove us to the hospital after the CPR on you failed. Though he left before your father and the police showed up.”

“Noel? Oh I see, L.E.O.N., of course.” Although, it was a blessing that he didn’t desert me with the mechanically impaired Chuckles, for, given his attitude in a panic situation, I’d have stayed dead. Yet, it was silly of me to have trusted a stranger from the internet.

After Chuckles left, I reflect on my escapade. The image of my dead mother looking at me with pity replays in my head like a scene from a classical continuity. All she wanted to do was to show me how foolish her little girl had been: No matter who they were, no one who used drugs or played dangerous games had a good future ahead of them. At that point, my headache subsides. I close my eyes and I breathe in deeply. Even the scent of a disinfectant is a relief to my lungs. The open window of the hospital room lets in a delicate breeze of hydrangeas, reminiscent of my mother’s fragrance. As the leaves on the trees dance merrily, I step into a new level of maturity for beginning to appreciate life.

Adam’s feet moved swifter than usual that day. He believed that the brisker he walked, the faster he’d find a solution to his problem: He had to find and pay £2000 he had borrowed from the local moneylender George in two days. He had collected only £250 so far, and that was also loaned to him from a few people.

Normally, Adam didn’t panic, but he was anxious about the time limit that was looming over him. George wasn’t a man to avoid or delay. He had lent Adam £1125 six months ago and every month that passed Adam would need to pay an additional 10% on his loan. Now that the time was up, George would expect to see his money at 11am sharp on the day, if he didn’t, Adam didn’t want to find out what would George do to him.

Adam also had been looking for jobs in passed six months. He may have been choosey at first but as time went on, he had even applied to menial jobs ten miles walk away. But jobs were scarce, under the drastic economic conditions, no one was hiring. Even if they were, it would take months for him to earn £2000.

Adam heard a splash; he had stepped in a puddle. Tired of cursing his luck, he turned around to walk back up the road. He had until home to invent a way to find that money. Only a miracle would have saved him now. Passing by his block, Adam thought he had better go to Mickey’s; his best friend, he always had some ideas at the last minute, if any of them were unusable, then at least he would have tried cheering him up. Having an ice-cold beer helped Adam to mull over the solution that sparked in his head during his walk. Except there was no solution just yet, but he needed to be brightened up. Adam buzzed the bell three subsequent times. Mickey opened the door with a mischievous cheer.

“Hey, buddy! I thought it’d be you. Come on in.”

“How’s it going?” Adam asked.

“All well,” Mickey dragged out the second syllable. He was one of those people even if he hanged upside down by the window at the third floor, he’d still say that all was well.

Within five minutes, Mickey’s mother rushed in the room with lemonade and a plate of biscuits in the manner of a servile attendant; she had always served them this combination since they were ten years old. Adam thanked Mrs Perry. He thought how lucky Mickey was, she still cared for her twenty-five-year-old son, while his own folks had given him an ultimatum to leave the flat in two months. According to his family, Adam had no business living with them at his age. Mickey, however, wasn’t much better off than Adam: Mickey had debts from gambling but his family were lenient and supported him with monthly payments to his creditors.

“So still nothing from the job applications, ay?” Asked Mickey.

“Still nothing. I even applied shops and restaurants ten miles walk away.” Adam bowed his head in despair. His eyes hurt from the restless nights.

“Hey it’s just an unlucky phase, just when you lose all the hope, you’ll hit your lucky star.”

“I would really like to sleep my unlucky phase off. For the first time, I’ve put more effort into something, and I still have nothing on my hands.”

“Dude, an opportunity is an offer for luck and when you seize that opportunity, you make your luck. So you’ve got to sit back and wait for that opportunity to come along.”

“Yeah, I wish I had the luxury you have. My lot want me gone before September.”

“Let’s talk to ma; she’d make your bed space in a jiffy. After all, she loves you perhaps more than she loves me.”

“Or maybe I’ll just beg the old- lady next door, she lives alone, and she’s loaded.” Adam said with a face that was about to break into a sob.

“How d’ya know she’s loaded?” Mickey widened his eyes.

“I came across with her yesterday. She was looking for her key to unlock the door to her flat. As she took the key out, she dropped a boodle of dosh snuggled in fifties. What’s crazy is that she didn’t even notice it.”

Mickey asked with gaped mouth, “Well, what did you do with it?”

“I was just walking behind her when she dropped the dough, so I picked it up and gave it to her. The poor soul was very grateful.”

“Wait, so you returned ALL the money?” Mickey emphasised on the word all.

“Yeah,” Adam flipped open his hands as though he would do otherwise.

“You crazy S.O.B. Once again, you’ve justified your poverty.”

“Because I helped somebody?”

“Because you don’t seize your chances, man.”

“But that was her money.”

“That could have been just the amount you needed. It dropped in front of you and she didn’t see it, you had your chance and you’ve ruined it.”

“Well, I just treat people in a way I would like to be treated; I’d have liked them to return the money if I had dropped it.”

“But you’re the only fool who’d return it,” Mickey said and offered Adam some hemp papers which he rolled his Golden Virginia tobacco into it.

“Does she have any children? Mickey asked.

“Who?”

“The centenarian.”

“Oh, No. I mean, I don’t even know for a fact. She’s always been alone.”

“Perhaps she’s inherited the money or has been saving it all life. What number does she live in?”

“Why, will you stop by hers for tea?”

“Do you realise the opportunity you’re being presented with?”

“That I could ask her to adopt me until I’m really ready to leave home?”

“No, man, all that money is probably just hidden under her pillow.”

“Well, obviously she needs that money in someway. The notes were crisp had that fresh ink smell, as if they were withdrawn from the bank clerk.”

“Look man, a senile keeps money at home because they don’t trust banks. Think about it, her and her dead husband’s pensions would have accumulated into a big capital by now.”

“Okay, even if so, what’s it to us?”

“Well, maybe we can borrow some and pay off our debts, then return it to her when we get back on our feet.”

Adam smirked wryly but didn’t comment. His face had reddened with an overwhelming feeling that he had momentarily fantasised what Mickey had said. What Mickey said could work, but he knew that once the money’s taken, until them two sorted their lives out, all the intentions for replacing it would become a lie.

“So should we ask the old lady together?” Adam asked.

“Ask? You think she’s crazy enough to lend to two bums? We’ve got no chance mate.” Mickey chuckled.

“So when you said ‘borrow’,” Adam paused momentarily, “Nope. No can do. It’s basically a burglary which is a crime, and it’s from an old, helpless lady which is worse.” “All crimes are immoral.” Mickey declared.

“But what makes an offence graver is its moral devaluation,”

“When’s George’s due? “On Wednesday at 11,” Adam replied.

“Listen, you haven’t got a chance in hell to find that money in two days. And think about your safety when George doesn’t get his money.”

“I know I know.” Adam said irritated and disheartened.

Adam left Mickey’s speaking further about transgressing against the old-lady. Mickey had shown him a possible way of getting hold of the money he needed even though the method wasn’t to his taste. “It’s stupid and dangerous.” Adam tried to suppress the igniting excitement in his mind. Could have the heart to do it? He reckoned not.

As Adam got back from one of his torrid days, he saw his neighbour Kelly cry while walking her pram. She was trying to wipe her tears in agile sweeps but another as soon as she did that they cascaded in volumes. Adam asked her if she was all right. Kelly talked amid her tears. She told Adam that her two-year-old son, Peter, needed an epilepsy surgery but he had to wait for a long time due to the list of patients; she also didn’t have enough money for a private operation. Adam had heard about it when his parents were discussing it. People in the same development had started a campaign for Peter, which Adam’s family had contributed into as well. It was sad for Adam to hear about the little Peter. He knew Kelly from school; she was once a chirpy girl who now wore a veil of despair and looked skin and bones from worry.

At home, Adam had another squabble with his father as George had called in to remind Adam about his debt. Arguments with his dad disheartened Adam so instead of staying home daytime, he would sit on the building stairs when he got tired from walking. Adam sat on the usual set of stairs. It pained him not being to help Kelly: He couldn’t stop thinking about the old lady’s pillow fund. Maybe he could even ask her to lend some money, but what if she refused and worse she told about it to his family? But if instead, he appropriated it, there would be no time limit for paying back.

Most nights, Adam tried to talk himself out of his villainous and unvirtuous thoughts, alas, without a success.

The next day, Adam met up with Mickey again. Adam had been in an emotional decay for some weeks now but tomorrow his body was expendable at George’s hands.

“Well, have you tossed and turned in the bed and decided yet?” Mickey asked.

“I don’t know.” Adam pursed his lips but Mickey knew Adam was finally defeated: He hadn’t the time left to ponder it over for longer.

In the end, Adam decided that he’d go ahead with the scheme. He’d give Mickey’s share, pay off his debt tomorrow, and give Kelly the rest of the money for the little Peter who had been a bigger reason in his decision.

“She goes for a walk every morning at 8.30 for two hours. So, I must get key tonight to bring it to key cutter McCarthy first thing in the morning. Then I can pick the money tomorrow while she’s out. My folks are travelling to visit someone, anyway. They’ll return around midnight.”

“Great.” Mickey rubbed his hands together.

“Then you call at the old-dame’s flat saying that you’re tired, thirsty and you’ve been locked out of home. You’ve got exactly 25 minute to copy the key. Then I’ll go into yours, switch the lights on, that’s your cue to leave her house.”

According to the plan, exactly at eight o’clock in the evening, Adam rang the old lady’s door. She responded with a subtle surprise and invited him inside her house to wait until his parents returned. Adam made up a story that he had been trying to break into his own house without a success and now he was tired.

The old lady listened to him with a deep empathy on her face, “You must be ravished. Would you like a plate of stew? I’ve made it today.”

“Very kind of you, thank you but I’m not hungry. Just a glass of water would do, please.” Adam’s nerves had given him stomach cramps so much that he didn’t need to act tired anymore.

Despite her frail stature and sluggish moves, the old lady insisted on making Adam some tea and left Adam to his own while she heated some water in her small kitchen.

Adam kept on track with his watch, hoping that Mickey would be on time with the plan. Adam was afraid if he stayed longer he might change his mind at the last minute. While the old-lady was in the kitchen, Adam browsed around. Where could be the money? Was it inside the chiming wall clock? Or was it inside the brass trunk? When the old lady sat down, he’d excuse himself to the bathroom and quickly pressed the key on to the salt dough that he carefully wrapped in his pocket.

The old lady returned with a cup of tea and a plate of chocolate digestive biscuits. She watched Adam dunking a biscuit with warmth on her face.

“If your folk don’t return tonight, you can always stay here. I’ve got a blow up mattress. It was my husband’s; I’ve been a widow since nine-teen-seventy-nine. We’ve never had children. So you’re like a son to me,” The old lady said.

Adam thanked her, drank his tea, and as planned, he excused himself to the bathroom. In the corridor, he swiftly imprinted the old-lady’s key and returned to the living room. After realising the signal across the window, Adam left the old-lady’s flat with a sense of sorrow for the lonesome elderly who had been kind to him.

The next morning the two cronies waited for the old-lady leave her flat for her walk: Mickey observed the surrounding area of the estate while Adam went in with the copy of the key he had gotten made. As soon as he stepped in the apartment, Adam inspected the old lady’s room. At the second glance, he saw a fat envelope on the Davenport chest. He had hit the jackpot. There was two stacks of fifties in there; this could have been a few thousand in cash. He briefly hesitated before he took it: Should he leave some money behind? Then his mobile phone rang, it was one of George’s men, most likely to remind to pay his debt later on. Adam cursed for forgetting to put his phone on silence. He switched off the phone, took the envelope, and quickly headed to the door. Since Mickey didn’t alarm him, the coast must have been clear of any people.

Adam got out of the estate and met Mickey around the corner. The content of the envelope amounted to exactly £5000. It had been so easy. Adam handed £1000 to Mickey for his debts. After George, he had £2000 saved for the little Peter. Adam was so proud to be able to help Peter and was looking forward to see Kelly smile after he handed her over the money. But first, he’d sort out his affairs.

On the way back to the estate in the early hours of the evening, Adam and Mickey were merry with the celebrations over celebratory pints. In the development, they saw a commotion and an ambulance. Amidst the crowd, he saw the old-lady being carried on the stretcher. Her eyes were closed. Suddenly, Adam felt an uneasy heaviness in his stomach. What if the old lady had died after he left? He asked a neighbour; she said they had robbed the old lady of the money which she’d planned to pledge to the little Peter’s cause. After her walk, she wanted to go to the hospital to see Peter but there was no envelope to be found. She had had welled up while talking about her misfortune to her neighbour and subsequently had a heart attack.

Adam froze with shock: A cold shower of sweat rushed down his spine. All of that money was the little Peter’s opportunity, after all. Adam had caused agony to the innocent old-lady and had deprived a needy child of his fortune. Adam left the scene at once.

To Adam’s disappointment, Mickey and him had already used the money to clear off their debts. Fortunately, Adam hadn’t given Kelly the money yet or else they would have found out who had stolen it by now.

“Well, what now?” Mickey asked.

“We’ve just deprived a sick child from his surgery fund and caused an innocent to fall sick. And there I was, thinking I was doing someone good. We have to match the sum.” Adam glanced at Mickey for his reaction.

Mickey appeared to be contemplating at instance, then beamed a wry smile. “There’s one place we can get the rest of the money, but it’s a bigger risk than the old lady’s house,” He said.

Adam nodded his head readily to Mickey's idea.

At midnight, the buddies reunited for their target. They broke into the betting store where Mickey often lost the most his cash. It was his way of getting his money back. Mickey knew that its owner had kept the till in the office. The masked pair clipped the lock with ease, but in the dungeon, they had a surprise waiting for them. The owner of the store was there, on his chair.

As dumbfounded as his visitors, a quick scuffle broke out where Mickey held the man with a knife, while Adam emptied the cash in a bag. As Adam prepared to get away, the shop owner wriggled out of Mickey’s hold and took the knife off of his hands. The owner lunged forward to Adam and stabbed him in the web of his foot. As he lifted the knife again to stab for the second time, Mickey hit him on the head, so Adam ran away.

On the pitch-black uphill streets, Adam’s sprint steadily turned into a hopping of a wounded deer. As he gradually felt the increasing twinge on his foot, Adam smiled; he could now give the little Peter his opportunity back to him.