STREET. LONDON, ENGLAND “Hey, shorties,” Hammett’s unmistakable voice called out as Jonathan and Shelley walked home, dripping wet with prune-like skin and an overwhelming sense of gratitude for the simple fact that they were alive. “Technically speaking, I’m tall for my age,” Shelley responded as she turned to see Hammett step out of a doorway. “No, you’re not; you’re average,” Jonathan chimed in. “This guy,” Shelley said, shaking her head. “He’s the wrecking ball of dreams. Just knocking them down one by one. You think you’re tall, Shells? Think again!” “Come on, kiddo, don’t tell me you actually thought you were tall for your age? You’re not that bad a detective, are you?” Hammett asked, looking Jonathan and Shelley up and down. “You two were put through the ringer tonight, weren’t you?” “We almost drowned. My whole body looks like a raisin from being locked in a pit of water. Hattie was infected with LIQ-30. And as if all that wasn’t bad enough, then Nina stole the boat, forcing us to walk home,”
