I preferred my own comforts: my flat, my smoothie stall, the electronics shop just off of Fishergate.So you can imagine my trepidation when Martha and I walked inside Harvers Garages, roughly the nine-zillionth new place I’d visited today.It was a small garage that looked like it didn’t get many visitors. Smell of gas in the air, mixed with microwaved pastry. The smell of the pastry reminded me how much I needed to eat. When had I last eaten, anyway?Shit. When had I even felt like eating?The door creaked behind us, and a bell rang. It was gloomy in this place, the sky gone grey outside. Behind the counter, past the rows of cheap crisps and shitty car accessories, there was a chubby guy in a red Harvers T-shirt with big, bulging eyes. He didn’t even glance up from his magazine when we entered.Great. Another hard-ass, by the looks of things.I went to look at my watch, in light of James Scotts’ assurance that Danielle only had four hours left after my “viral video stunt.”But Martha grabbed my hand before I could check.She half-smiled at me.
