When Don opened his eyes again, it was already dark. He checked the time, seven thirty. He had only slept six and a half hours, but he felt much better. Youth really was an advantage. His recovery rate was something else.
After a hot shower and a large meal of frozen dumplings, he grabbed his handbag, second-generation light-sensing glasses tucked safely inside, and headed out.
Henshaw Tower sat in one of Liverpool's busiest districts, along Kensington Road, where every kind of entertainment venue you could want was within walking distance. The ground floor of the tower housed two shops: a department store and a bar.
A handful of men and women, all younger than Don, were already gathered outside the bar. Most of them had dyed hair in unusual colors, and various trinkets dangled from their ears or noses, giving them the look of little demons fresh out of a cave from Journey to the West.
