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You always hated Perth with its clean streets. There’s nowhere to hide from the wind or the heat. And the heat is on you now. You’re a scrawny kid, small for your age but a practiced pickpocket with fast fingers and feet.

What do you pack when you have eight minutes to leave? I can barely hear my thoughts above the clamour of the alarm. I glance at a photograph above my bed.

The melody was familiar. How did the words go? Brown sugar. A good choice. I snatch up the phone. “Do you have it?” “Twice your usual. Like you wanted.