The Sprout Prince Hits Rock Bottom
image generated by Craiyon Atkinson Row was like two different streets that had been forced to cohabit. Along one side, the living rooms of a pre-war terrace blazed with festive cheer, like the open doors of an advent calender. The modernist student hall of residence, that loomed opposite, was a garish assembly of giant Tetris bricks that had been improperly slotted together. It had been mostly vacated for the season and only a few lights were on. Jake Denham paced along the middle of the road with his hoodie pulled down over his eyes. A girl with wavy ginger hair shouted at him theatrically from one of the upper floors: “You boy, what day is this?” Without pausing, he silently extended his middle finger in her direction. On the fringes of the hospital parking lot, a pair of Christmas songs, blaring from separate cars, briefly skirmished for his attention. The lobby was unusually quiet. An elderly couple were leaning over the counter, where a receptionist, in a spotty blouse, sat t...