Two girls, students, stood in front of him and one of them was digging around in her purse. She hastily fished out a couple of coins-her friend gazing sourly at her all the while-and dropped them into his cup.

“God bless you,” Daniel said. “Both of you, God bless you.”

They hurried away, the sour one berating her friend for-what, exactly? Daniel sat stoically until they dashed between the columns of the Bodleian Library. Then he leaned forward and inspected the latest windfall. There looked to be seventy-eight pence now. That meant she only gave him twenty-two.

Sighing, he got up, shouldered his overstuffed rucksack, and started walking to St. Michael’s Street. The bodies in front of him shifted, opened, and closed in their usual manner. And through the ebb and flow, a figure was suddenly revealed and then hidden again-a small, lean, heavily tattooed figure that walked with an animalistic gait, wide and lurching.

Daniel froze, his heart racing. He pushed his breath out in a low whistle, his hand instinctively rising and clutching at an object hanging under his jacket along his rib cage. He gripped it so hard that his knuckles went white.

With an effort he opened his fist and started walking again.

He strode quickly this time, weaving deftly through the crowd, trying to close the gap between himself and the tattooed head. He still had not caught sight of it by the time he stood underneath Carfax Tower, the intersection of the town’s busiest foot traffic. He stood, turning slightly as he rapidly scanned the faces of those approaching from four directions, hoping-but dreading-to see the squat, hairless head.

Underneath Carfax Tower was another homeless man selling magazines-Scouse Phil. Daniel approached him with a nod. “Alright, Phil?”

“Eee, our Dan. How’s yourself?”

“Yeah, not bad, not bad. You ain’t seen a short bloke, kind of thin, shaved head, tattoos, that kind of thing? Passed by about ten minutes ago?”