It was his turn next. The other boys were all occupied so whoever came through that door would be his. Or rather, he’d be theirs. He stared fixedly at the handle, waiting for it to turn, silently begging it not to but knowing such thoughts were fanciful. It was only seven o’clock. The wash from the early commuter rush had peaked and flowed over the margins of the establishment and now it waited for the evening wave. That Sam hadn’t been chosen was both good and bad. Good because it meant that he was still fresh, his mouth tasted of toothpaste, his skin was clean. Bad because in the few days he’d been in the house he had already learnt that it was never a good sign to be last. He sniffed, his nose raw from his recent addiction. Mucus was a constant problem and one of his frequent nightmares involved suffocation as he choked. At least he still looked good. His skin was clear, hair glossy, body slim and smooth. Unlike some, his eyes remained bright, the whites shiny.
