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Geffy

Geffy holds the pinch of rushlight between finger and trembling thumb for a long time, a catgut string of anticipation. It took him all week to scrape together this dose. The next one will take longer.

Then he snorts it, and for an hour he’s a lord.

No one questions him; hansoms appear at his gesture, women blush or curtsey, and his pockets turn out silver coins. The clothes on his back are of inconsequence. All anyone sees is the clarity of his eyes–

And then he’s done, kneeling and shaking, trying to tongue up the last crumbs of the drug.

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