Through the light and dust motes, Ryan tried to focus on that patch of bare wall by the window.

No, there was no one there. He must have imagined it.

Ryan ignored that uneasy feeling in his gut, and stepped into the room. Of course, Fizz couldn’t

hear him. He might even be asleep. His eyes were closed, but how on earth could anyone sleep with

that volume of music in their ears? Ryan walked up to him slowly, not wanting to give him a fright.

With his foot, he gently nudged the bottom of the mattress. “Fizz?”

Fizz opened his eyes, red rimmed and bloodshot, and they darted about wildly until finally resting

on Ryan. “Oh.” Fizz pulled out his ear phones and sat up. His cheeks flushed, and he stared at the floor

as he spoke. “Sorry, Ryan, I didn’t hear you.”

“Don’t worry,” Ryan said, forcing cheer into his voice. “How’s it going?”

At that, Fizz glanced up at him, almost quizzically. Then he blushed even harder. “F-fine.”

Oh brother, Ryan thought. Well, here goes nothing. “Great! Look, Fizz, um... We’re kinda stuck. I

was wondering if you’d do me – and Ginger – a massive favour?”

Fizz stared up at him, blue eyes wide. “Favour?”

“Yeah, we’re down by three staff members, and it’s gonna get busy soon. Would you give us a hand

downstairs? Just until Ginger gets back.”

Ryan didn’t think it was possible for Fizz to become any paler than he already was, but the boy

definitely paled at that suggestion.

“But – but – I don’t know how...I mean...”

“Don’t worry,” Ryan said, trying to put him at ease. “You can collect glasses. Just small, easy jobs.

That’ll help us out a lot.”

“But – but I –”

“You won’t have to talk to anyone.”

Fizz bit his lip. The kid was clearly distressed at the very idea of interacting with people. Ryan

sighed, and went for a last ditch attempt. “Please mate, I wouldn’t ask if we weren’t desperate.”

“I don’t–” Whatever Fizz had been about to say was cut off as his body shuddered, like an

exaggerated shiver. His back arched and his eyes closed momentarily, then he sprang off his bed.

Throwing his music player down, Fizz said breathlessly, “Actually, I think I will come downstairs.”

Ryan stared in shock as he watched Fizz run out of the room. “Huh,” he said, frowning. “Okay.”

* * *

Fizz tried not to panic. He breathed in deep through his nose and let it out slowly through his

mouth. Gentle breathing exercises, like he’d been told to do. Normally, around this many people, he’d

be having a full blown panic attack. Their chatter, combined with the music, swirled around in the air,

creating a buzzing net of sound. There were a handful of people, mostly men in smart clothes,

standing around the bar. Ryan said they were the ones just out of work, desperate for their first pint.

More people had started filing in, just dribs and drabs. Most of the tables in the garden were full by

now, and a few inside as well. There was a large gathering of smokers at the pub’s entrance, but Ryan

said they would be shooed inside once the bouncers showed up, and the evening really got busy.

Ryan had asked him to go around collecting empty glasses, and at first Fizz was terrified of doing

something wrong. He didn’t mean to, but his mind always raced ahead of him, and dreamt up all the

worst case scenarios. What if he dropped a glass? What if he tripped and dropped a glass on someone?

What if there was blood, and screaming, and it was all his fault? And God, what if someone tried to

talk to him? What then?

The flutterings of panic started as he approached the first empty table, staring at the two used

glasses. Glancing back at the bar, the few steps to safety seemed miles away. Anything could happen

on his way back, holding delicate glass in his hands. He didn’t know how the others carried such big

stacks of glasses. It was impossible, Fizz told himself. Impossible.

Then something cold pressed onto the back of his neck. It felt like ice but, strangely, not cold.

Almost hot. Fizz had been halfway through turning around to see what it was, when a voice from

somewhere deep inside started telling him what to do.

“Relax. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

Fizz forgot about the icy touch on his neck and focussed on the voice. The calm, soothing voice that

told him to pick up first one glass, then the other. It told him to walk to the back of the bar, and place

the glasses on the bar top like Ryan had shown him. As he set the glasses down, Fizz couldn’t quite

believe his own eyes. He’d done it. He’d actually done it, and it was fine. In fact, he could barely

remember doing it.

Then he was picking up more glasses, and more. There were enough dirties collected on the bar top

now, and Fizz walked through the gap in the bar that the staff used, not noticing anyone else, and went

straight to the glass washer. He unloaded clean glasses, refilled the washer with the dirties, and then

began collecting glasses again.

At some point, Ryan asked him, “You doing okay?” Fizz didn’t really hear him, but nodded

absently. “It’s nearly seven,” Ryan told him. “Ginger’s sent a message, and he’ll be back soon. Tell

him he owes you one hour’s pay.”

Fizz looked at Ryan, at the smile on his face, and nodded absently. He wandered out into the garden

again, which was still light. There were more groups of smokers by the back door, and he breezed past

them. Half in a dream, he flitted from table to table, picking up the empties. He was carrying them in

stacks of four now, without even thinking about it.

Fizz wandered back inside, and placed the empties on the side bar, just like the voice told him to.

He thought he heard someone call his name. As he rounded the bar yet again, heading for the glass

washer, he bumped into Ginger. He’d obviously just arrived, as he was still wearing his leather jacket,

the one with the patches and badges all over it.

“Oh, hey, Fizz.” Ginger looked surprised, yet tried not to show it. “Thanks for doing this. I’ll make

sure you get paid.”

“Hour and a half,” Ryan chipped in with a smile. “It’s half seven now, and he started at six.”

“That’s fine,” Pete called from the other end of the bar, agreeing it.

Fizz watched them, in the middle of serving customers and talking at the same time, but it was like

they were talking to him from underwater. He quietly continued on his way to the glass washer.

“Um...” Ginger started to say something then obviously decided against it. “Okay,” he shrugged off

his jacket and chucked it through the staff door. “Right. Who needs serving?”

Fizz ignored the hustle and bustle of the bar. He focussed on the glasses, and that voice. Time just

seemed to disappear. It was relaxing, in a way, yet strange. Like he wasn’t really there. Almost like

being on the pills again. With that thought, his breathing picked up. Something wasn’t right, but he

couldn’t work out what it was, not with his head so foggy like this. He was walking without really

thinking about it. Past tables, past the thumping speakers, out into the garden again.

The various smokers were still gabbing away by the door. Fizz floated past them and up the steps.

He picked up one empty pint glass at a table, then turned. There was a person right in front of him, and

as Fizz looked up to see that familiar handsome face with the dark eyes, the glass simply slipped from

his fingers. With the smash on the concrete, and the laughs and jeers that followed, his spell of peace

was broken. The air cleared, and grew loud. Every little sound – talking, shouting, the clinking of

glasses – suddenly seemed hundreds of decibels too high. Fizz felt like he’d woken up from a dream to