'What were you doing?'
He buried his face in his hands. His hands then spoke.
'If you catch one and drink its blood, you get to sleep. They have the Sleepy Time blood. Like red chamomile tea. Have you seen their eyes? They're crammed full of zeds. The fucking park's swimming with them. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck...'
He was drifting from grief toward frustration and rage. I reached down, snatched the knife out of his hand, and hurled it as far as I could into the bush.
'Get a grip,' I hissed. 'They're not demons. They're just little kids.'
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