She always did this, tried to find new routes or short cuts, and claimed that she was making time when I could see the seconds fall away in waste.

—

We don’t need a short cut. We’ve got to get to the airport. The plane leaves in.. fuck.. come on.

In the back, the woman whose car Maggie had stolen was beginning to come out of her shock, and seemed to be trying to call the police on her mobile phone.

“This is a short cut. Its the only way we’ll make it.”

She turned back to the road, and looked straight into the eyes of an old man.

“Stop!”

The impact came in with the sound of the tires. We stopped. The man was in the middle of the road. Maggie and I got out of the car and rushed over to see him. His breathing was difficult. What to do? We looked at each other. Looked around. And saw the owner of the car driving away.

“Shit.”

We’d missed the plane, and now we were lost in a side street in Prague, surrounded by derelict buildings, and with our luggage and money rapidly driving out of sight in a car we’d hijacked. With a old man dying in front of us.

“Shit.”

That was when we first met Satana.