Slamming the car door he turns and looks up the four-storey house, the stars above brighter than ever due to the lack of competition from Earth. The next door along opens and an old woman descends carrying a burdened recycle box like a gift for the king, oblivious to the swarms of insects all around her. Hook sighs and presses the doorbell. There’s a crackle of static: “Battersea Dog’s Home?”
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