I offered out my hand and took the map from him.
“Cheers mate, I’m a little bit lost, I reckon,” he said.
I didn’t recognize the man, but part of my cover involved helping the locals, blending in, so I knew I’d better.
“No worries,” I told him.
But as I glanced down, I realized he was lost for a reason. I was rusty, had taken my eyes off him entirely. He knew this.
The second-to-last thing I remember seeing were the pages of that stupid “Bristol Pub Guide.”
The floor racing up at me was the last.
BIO: Jack Holt Born and raised in Bristol, England, Jack now lives, breathes and writes almost daily from his bunker deep in the Somerset countryside." Jack Holt can also be found online at http://jackkholt.wordpress.com/2012/01/02/past-transgressions/ and http://jackkholt.wordpress.com/2011/12/27/hunted/
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