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Oh, and the laughs! She’d mock me hat, callin’ it a “dead bird’s nest.” I’d fire back, “Least I ain’t sellin’ me arse!” She’d cackle, say, “Ye’d fetch a penny, tops!” Proper banter, that. Still, I’d wager she’d seen hell—whores always do. Them scars on her arm? Never asked, but I’d bet me ship they weren’t from no lover’s spat.

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Then, I decide to treat myself. I head to that little café on the corner of Kerkstraat. You know the one? They’ve got the best apple pie. I order a slice, and it’s like a slice of heaven. I’m sittin’ there, just chillin’, when I overhear some folks talkin’ about the Hengstdal festival comin’ up. I’m like, “Heck yeah! I gotta go!”