Achmat folds down onto the mattress, laying a glass tube and a lightbulb stripped of its filament on the filthy ticking. He ignores her now, his concentration absolute as he prepares the meth pipe, filling the unthreaded bulb with crystals and firing the underside with his lighter. Achmat sucks smoke, holding it in his lungs before he releases a toxic cloud. He inhales until the lightbulb is empty, a stunned expression on his face, his eyes closed. Then he coughs and sighs and his body, wrapped tight as wire beneath his clothes, unspools as he slumps against the tin wall. His fogged eyes open. “Talk.” “I want to know what happened to my brother in Pollsmoor.” “Why you think I know?” “The undertakers said what was done to him was a message from the gangs. Was that message for you?” He stares at her, unblinking.
