I found Christophe’s little repair shop tucked away under the railway arches. There was nothing he couldn’t fix. Springs and gears cluttered his bench, bits of old toasters and gizmos whose purpose I couldn’t imagine.
“I need these words repurposed,” I said, dropping the Gladstone bag on his counter. Some tarnished verbs slipped out.
He picked one. “Flense,” he said, turning it over and examining it with a jeweller’s loupe. “Tricky”
While I waited, I leafed through an antique volume, became lost in the tale.
“Where was I?”
“Working a story,” he said. “I’m afraid I involved your body in slaying some dragons.”