These are no clear directions – by Lars Rogers

You turn left at that old shop. There used to be a man who lived inside it. Every time I saw him he had a cigarette slotted in his mouth – poking through a giant beard. I remember hearing something about a hand surgery. Or was it a heart surgery? I suppose it doesn’t matter now. I am pretty sure he was the Dad of one of my mates. We used to smoke out the back of the science lab. That was what we did. My mate was always concerned – either by the fact that we were smoking, or that a teacher might catch us. I didn’t know. I could never figure it out. I’ve been having a little bit of trouble lately.