Hayder had a wispy little beard, bags under his eyes and a sickly complexion. He was only thirty-one, even though he looked like he’d seen the world twice over and written whole novels complaining about it. The toll of too many drinks and cigarettes and a sleep debt that could bankrupt a developed country.

At the bar they talked: he was a writer, and he and Charlie had shared the same English teacher.

“She taught you too huh? She didn’t like me writing cutesy stuff. Said I made her sad- I could write, but I kept choosing such ‘vapid’ subject matter.

“But she loved the endless parade of stories about spurned lovers and hated parents… and we had god-knows how many people opening with guys tied to a chair or torturing someone.

“So I wrote about death and rape and hatred and she adored it and read it out to the class and cited me as her most improved student.

“I left and never went back.”

Hayder took another drink, and gave Charlie a hard look.

“You want to write fantasy? You just go ahead and write it.”