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The Upper World

IT TAKES AN impressive mix of stupidity and bad luck to not be in a gang but still find yourself in the middle of a gang war. I’d managed it in less than a week. And that was before the time travel.

I knelt down, resting my elbows on the one corner of the mattress where the sheet hadn’t peeled off. Tired and alone in my bedroom, I was desperate for heavenly backup. But I couldn’t make the call between Jesus, his mum, Thor, Prophet Mohammed (and the big man he works for), that bald Asian dude in orange robes, Jesus’s dad, Emperor Haile Selassie, my granddad’s voodoo sculpture, Morgan Freeman, or that metal slab on the moon in the olden-day film 2001. So, to be safe, I prayed to the whole team.

“Dear Holy Avengers,” I pleaded into my interlaced fingers. “First off, please forgive me for being a prick on Monday. And for lying to Mum about what happened.”


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