There was little left of Lara by the time she finally stumbled home. She’d been gone fifteen days. “Just one drink!” she’d said. And she really meant it. But things got out of hand. One thing led to another. Two hundred and fifty tequilas can do some funny things to a person. She’s not the best at saying no. She walked back to Peckham through the Gobe desert, dripping in Jägerbombs. By the time she dissolved through the door and collapsed on her bed, all that was left of her was a pair of blistered feet, a dusty traffic cone, and an empty handbag.