Abigail hesitated ever-so-slightly to peer at the retreating form of her uncle before she also wandered out of the front doors, frowning. The walk back from the hotel was twice as uncomfortable as the walk there since she had to pull her clothes on whilst sopping wet, causing them to chafe against her thighs and arms. She grunted in agreement to going towards the park; Abigail was too busy thinking, or sulking, to really provide any decent conversation. Instead, the crunch of three pairs of trainers across the tarmac accompanied  the incessant birdsong and cricket chirps of Brimstone’s sweltering summer.

Abigail thudded down onto the grass back-first and was suddenly reminded of last night’s defenestration. She pulled a grimace as if she tasted something unpleasant and rolled onto her side to face her friends. “I can’t do anything tonight,” she reported bluntly. “I’ve got a shift at the bar. Of course, I’d invite you guys along, but…” she smirked. How Abigail - a minor - managed to get a job working part-time as a waitress in the Drunken Skunk is a mystery, but there’s no doubt that Brooks might have had a say in it. Unfortunately, Abigail’s stories about her time in there weren’t too appealing; it was a spit-and-sawdust sort of pub, only frequented by podgy old men to drink a pint or two with their colleagues every night. The most exciting news Abigail had to report was that someone threw up all over the jukebox last Christmas and she was given the pleasure of cleaning it up.

“What that means,” Abigail grunted as she sat up, “is we gotta think of something to do and quick. Oh, and it also means I’m gonna steal leftovers from your grandma.” She poked Molly in the ribs, grinning mischievously. “We could go bully the Owen Brothers…” she hummed, “...Or we could, uhm...fuck. Fucksake. You country hicks and your lack of entertainment. Go on, you both grew up here.” Abigail gestured vaguely to both Lillith and Molly. “Don’t leave me to figure out what to do all the time.”