Prologue 
 

      It was a Christmas present—quite the best present he’d ever had. He’d opened it with shaking hands, and for the first time in two years, was able to tune out his stepdad’s berating voice.

      Merv Wilkins thought the camera was a stupid idea. Cameras used film which cost money. Stupid to give a kid gifts which needed “refuelling”. Stupider still to give a kid a gift which needed developing before it was any use.

      And now, Merv and his mom were yelling again. When the boy came reluctantly downstairs, his first sight was something he would carry with him always: a look of abhorrence, almost of horror, in his mother’s eyes. He’d never thought she could look at him that way, and for a moment, the unshakeable structure of his kid’s world crumbled.

      It was surprising that the thing which gave it back was the harshness of his stepfather’s voice. “No more than I expected,” he was saying grimly.

      Meeting Wilkins’ dire expectations was something Shawn seemed to do regularly. Whatever he’d done this time couldn’t be any worse than usual.

      He was wrong.

      Merv tossed a photograph onto the table, then another, and another.

      In front of Shawn’s face. Where he couldn’t avoid looking.

      Where he couldn’t avoid seeing...

      Gooseflesh tightened on his arms and legs, then danced down his back. “They’re not mine,” he said.

      But they were. This room. This house.

      These were pictures of The Hollowing—the same thing he felt at nights, when he awakened anchorless from screaming dreams.

      And in a moment of near-adult wisdom, Shawn suddenly understood his stepfather’s revulsion. No wonder he hates me...

      The Hollowing was a bleak and empty hole; a crater which threatened to suck him in. It was that moment of wakefulness when his nightmares were still real, and his world was filled with despair.

      His eyes focussed on the nearest photo, and he swallowed convulsively. This Hollowing wasn’t empty. He’d filled it somehow.

      The woman was dead. She was lying there, in the centre of their lounge, a shadow with far too much substance. What was even more horrifying was the way the angle of her body had changed as the photographer had shifted around the room. She was a 3D image imposed on a 2D medium.

      Merv picked up the photos and threw them and the negatives into the fire. Shawn tore up the stairs and grabbed his camera. Then, before he could think about it, he tossed the camera into the flames, too.

      It was the first time he and Merv had agreed on anything.

*

      Chapter One 
 

      “It—was—Shawn’s—car.” Dos enunciated each word slowly and deliberately, so Rhys wouldn’t have any trouble getting the point.

      Rhys nodded absently. “Uh-huh.” He was only half-listening. It was lunchtime, and he was trying to catch up on some work. Leave it to that dumbshit Dos to call him here. “If you’re so sure, why don’t you ask Shawn about it?” He was hanging up when he heard Dos’ retort. He lifted back up the receiver but it had already disconnected.

      Gritting his teeth in annoyance, he punched in Dos’ cellphone number. “What was that?”

      “Gotcha.”

      Rhys could picture Dos’ grin. He rolled his eyes. “Spare me the levity, Dimwit. What did you say?”

      “I tried his phone. It’s disconnected.”

      For the first time, Rhys was really listening. He frowned. “Sounds like Shawn has trouble.”

      “He’s about to get a whole lot more.” Dos clicked off.

      Rhys shook his head, amused. Dos would take something like this personally. He was Shawn’s second cousin—just about the only family Shawn had left. They’d rarely seen each other growing up. Shawn’s stepdad, Merv, hadn’t approved of Dos’ side of the family.

      Rhys idly punched in Shawn’s number, and listened to the annoying disconnection tones.

      There could be a perfectly logical explanation—other than the obvious, of course. But, knowing Shawn the way he did, Rhys had a feeling logical wouldn’t cut it.

      The dumbass...

      He’d never been able to ask for help—not even when Merv the Perv was beating the shit out of him. He’d preferred to put up and shut up while he tried to work things through on his own.

      Rhys glanced at his watch again. Lunch. He grabbed his jacket and headed out the door.

*

      Shawn whistled softly as he patrolled the long alleyside of the building. He wanted to flick on the flashlight, but that would make him a target.

      So will the whistling, you fool.

      He bit his lips and tried not to crunch as he moved across the asphalt. These buildings made all kinds of weird noises at night.

      Get used to it. Ignore it. Get past it.

      It didn’t stop the dark flashlight from shaking in his hand, or his legs from feeling wobbly.

      Security. He’d never felt less secure in his life.

      He turned, just as a soft glow silhouetted movement behind the dirty glass. The disturbance was on the second floor, and the aged panes were too crusty to see anything clearly.

      He walked down to the old office door and checked the padlock. Still secure. Obviously, they weren’t getting in here. With shaking fingers, he twisted the key in the lock and undid the hasp.

      Before he went in, he took out his phone and then stopped, wondering whom he should call. Police? This was low priority. They didn’t give a damn if The Majestic Mill burned to the ground.

      The owner? The man who’d offered him this security job half out of pity, half out of guilt? Shawn couldn’t picture Arn Farnsworth coming down here in the middle of the night. He’d probably be happy if the place burned down. Then he could collect the insurance. He’d done everything he could...even hired an inept security guard...

      Buildings had a way of burning down in this neighbourhood.

      That’s probably why he bought it...

      Shawn stared at the phone a second longer, wondering whether this job was worth the price of his paycheque.

      You must’ve thought so when you agreed to it...

      And basically, that’s all there was to say. He’d agreed to the bargain, and made his deal with the devil. Time to pay the price.

      He walked in, down the hallway, and past the offices. Moonlight filtered erratically through the window, stained and defined by bars.

      Like working in a prison...

      At least, in his old office, confinement had been more amenable to the human condition. They’d attempted to fool them with a facade of light and air, low partitions and heat pumps.

      But here, every time he looked up, there were bars...

      He was letting himself get sidetracked. Putting off the inevitable. Shawn wove his way between ancient desks and toppled chairs. When they’d closed the Mill, they’d left it all to rot, and walked away. Only mice had walked here since.

      And real estate agents.

      Shawn wondered whether Arn had ever been inside, or whether he’d bought it on the advice of his money man.

      The stairs were a dark hole in the distance. For just a moment, Shawn froze, as gooseflesh did its devil dance along his skin. Déjà vu...

      The Hollowing. Like his dreams. The hole, where everything caved in beneath his feet.

      Stupid. Childish. A kid’s name for a night-time fear.

      Fool.

      “Coward.” Merv’s favourite word. What did a man do with a son who was afraid of everything?

      Abuse him. Tear him apart to build him over. Build other people’s security on his bones.

      If Merv could see me now...

      He’d finally feel he had a son worth respecting. No wisdom—just treading the balance between balls and brawn.

      Shawn suspected Merv had hated him till the day he died. He hadn’t thought of the man in years, and Shawn didn’t know why he was now.

      Because I haven’t been this afraid since Merv...

      But, he’d survived that, and he’d survive this. Shawn tightened his jaw and headed for the Hollowing in the distance.

*

      It was a massive room. These were the windows he’d seen from below, and the place was filled with moonlight. There was no movement, no sound. Could the light have been a reflection from the building next door? Some stray radiant echo he’d failed to see?

      He took a step, then peered at the dust impressions from his work books. There were no similar disturbances marring the dust layer, but he forced himself to prowl the room just in case. There were no other exits—only the stairs.

      Fire trap...

      He couldn’t explain what had happened, but he’d done his job. Checked out a disturbance. Now, he could scribble his report.

      Relieved, he made one last tour, then headed for the door.

      And stopped, mid-reach.

      Open the door.

      But he couldn’t. His arm was rigid, his fingers clenched.

      And he couldn’t make himself touch the knob.

      Safe. Stay where you’re safe...

      There was something waiting for him on the stairs. His impression of darkness—of The Hollowing—hadn’t been exaggerated. He stood there, shaking, and listened. Beyond the wooden partition, the thick silence was giving way.

      Breaking down the barriers...

      Little whispers, small thuds, soft rustling cascades of movement.

      Rats. Only rats.

      Thuds and thunks. Rattles and clatters. And then, a sound Shawn couldn’t attribute to anything else: the squeak and echo of a heavy tread on wood.

      Someone was ascending the stairs.

      Shawn was holding his breath, so he could listen. He didn’t even realise it until his heart started throbbing in his ears. He stood there stiffly, and listened to it coming.

      The door’s unlocked. An invitation, if ever there was one...

      The knob was ice-cold beneath his fingers. The chill spread up his arm, but he didn’t let it sway him. He squinted his eyes, and yanked open the door.

      The noise swept through him, carrying with it a rancid stink and a flurry of movement. He couldn’t see anything but darkness, and there was noise all around him.

      It was a fire. The crackling flames leapt up, roaring, popping, hissing. Screaming sizzles, mini explosions, whines of venting gas.

      And then it was merely screams. Shouts which escalated to howls and shrieks. Terror. That’s what this was: terror. Old emotions, dredged up and waiting. The stink of must mingled with the rancid odour of burning hair. Shawn dropped to his knees, sick and sweating.

      He fell down the stairs, hitting the landing with a gigantic crash. He couldn’t hear it, though—couldn’t hear anything over the cacophony in his ears. In a half roll, half dive, he splatted to the bottom floor, and crawled, then pushed himself to his feet and staggered for the outer door.

      It was closed. Locked. He yanked on the knob, fumbled with the lock, but it wouldn’t give. He couldn’t get the hinges loose on the door. The pins were as tight as the lock. No way out...

      He ran to the window, and slammed the glass with a chair. Glass gave, bars didn’t. He rattled, and shook, and pounded.

      Phone...

      He yanked out his cellphone. It was dead.

      Like me.

      Around him, the air seethed. It was transmitting itself to the furnishings. Chairs scraped, dust spiralled, papers flew.

      Shawn barely noticed over the smoke pouring into his eyes.

      There was only one way out. The upstairs room, with its cool moonlight and empty spaces. Shawn flattened his hands over his ears, squinted his eyes and headed for the steps. His flesh was burning as he crawled, clambered, and wriggled up the stairs.

      At the top, he slammed back the door and dove...

      ...onto a pyre of flame.

*

      It had taken the morning light to convince him he wasn’t burned. Shawn had sat there for hours, listening to the world burn around him. Popping, hissing, sizzling. Screams, sobs, and shouts. The wail of sirens. The hack and bash of the axes. The splash, pound, and hiss of the hoses.

      Then it was gone. He remained sitting, under a window, moving only with the moonlight. The last thing he wanted was to be alone there, in the dark.

      But he wasn’t ready to challenge the stairs. The experience was like a charley-horse, and he had a fear that like a muscle spasm, it would take only his presence to stir things once more.

      He didn’t know what had happened, but he never wanted it to happen again.

      So, he’d sat there, huddled, and waited for the light.

      At five thirty-three am, his dead phone suddenly came back to life. He had ten messages, most of them from Dos. Since he couldn’t be bothered answering his calls, or taking notes off his door, he damn well better come to breakfast.

      Breakfast. Real life intruding. In moments, as the sun’s rays dusted motes with glistening light, the tight knot of tension relaxed. The night’s terror wasn’t anything he wanted to live with.

      Wrong place, wrong time.

      A dream. Imagination gone wild. Nerves, over blowing a job he hated.

      Better than no job at all.

      When he opened the door to the stairwell, Shawn hesitated only briefly, and when the alley entry opened easily he didn’t even question it.

      But as he refastened the padlock, and headed down the road to breakfast, he couldn’t help but wonder why the smoke smell lingered in his nose.

*

      Shawn yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Weirdest night,” he muttered.

      “Who was she?” Dos grinned. “You must like her a lot if you’re selling Gretchen to support her.”

      Shawn followed him over to the booth. His cellphone was working this morning, but his brain wasn’t all there yet. “What?” he asked.

      “D’you want coffee, Fool?” Dos shook his head. “Never mind. He needs tanking up,” he told the waitress. “Bad night.”

      Shawn gave a trace of a smile at that, but it was obvious he was still lost in thought. Finally, he stuck his sleeve in Dos’ face. “What’s that smell like to you?”

      Dos took an experimental sniff, then frowned. “Barbecue?” he suggested.

      “More like ‘Rare Roast Shawn’.” Shawn smiled at the waitress, then took a big slurp of coffee.

      “You playing fireman now?”

      Shawn shook his head. “Night watchman.” Dos’ silence prompted an explanation. “Cyrco had a layoff.”

      “That was over a month ago.” Dos’ voice held a trace of anger. He couldn’t believe Shawn had been trying to live on nothing for a month. “Did you get unemployment?”

      Shawn grinned. “No need. Got a job instead.”

      Dos was still frowning. “Night watchman,” he said flatly.

      “Security.” He smirked at Dos’ expression. “Hey, makes me feel more secure. I’ll even buy your coffee.”

      Dos guessed Shawn had barely enough in pocket to buy his own. “Like hell,” he said. “This one’s mine.” He studied Shawn for a moment, then said, “You don’t look too roasted to me. Fried, maybe.”

      Shawn stuck his feet up on the opposite booth, and took another big sip of his coffee. Stupid to have mentioned it at all. The last few weeks of unemployment had undermined his confidence—and taught him a little about circumspection. “Security’s not all I’m doing,” he said calmly. “I’m changing fields: computer graphics. Specifically, animation. One of those ‘Get paid while you train’ courses.”

      “You’ll do anything to get paid—”

      “At this point, yes,” Shawn told him honestly. He was facing the kitchen, and his eyes unconsciously fixed on the pancakes and bacon drifting past on a tray.

      Dos flagged over the waitress. “He may say he’s sticking with coffee, but bring him hotcakes anyway. A bacon side and two eggs, over easy.”

      “Hairball—”

      “I’m not eating in front of you,” Dos told him dryly, “and I’m not going without breakfast just to satisfy your fuckin’ pride.” Shawn was frowning, so Dos changed the subject. “Why go for CGD? Thought designers were a dime a dozen.”

      “Needed a goal. It’s a popular field, but there’s still a chance to make my mark.” Shawn added excitedly, “It’s not only the graphics—it’s the design. Designers can work on anything from furniture to architecture to gardens.” His eyes lit up. “All that engineering background—”

      “Which served you so well in your last field,” Dos reminded him.

      Shawn’s lips curved in a smile. “Engineering will give me an edge,” he finished.

      “I thought it was talent that did that.” The voice spoke from behind Shawn’s back.

      “He’s not worried about a little thing like that,” Dos retorted.

      “So the man’s going back to school,” Rhys mused. “Didn’t you get enough of that the first time around?”

      “It’s a Visual Arts certificate. Ten months, and I’ll have a portfolio.”

      “Stocks?” Rhys joked.

      “That comes later—after I’ve made my mark.” Shawn grinned.

      “So tell us about this security detail,” Dos prompted. “Does it come with a gun?”

      “Maybe one of those shiny badges and a pair of handcuffs?” Rhys grinned.

      “Building owner hired me on the cheap,” Shawn admitted, amused. “A flashlight, and I carry my cellphone, just in case.”

      “You weren’t last night. I must’ve tried it a dozen times. It wouldn’t even take a message. Just dead air.” The way Dos said it, made it sound as though Shawn had done it intentionally.

      “That’s because I was inside, Fool. No reception.”

      “It should still have taken a message—” Dos argued.

      Rhys cut in with a “No reception? Not too safe. Where’re you working?”

      Shawn avoided his eyes. “Majestic Mill. Arn Farnsworth bought it last year.”

      “The jerk with the czar complex,” Rhys remarked, his look suggesting Farnsworth’s name said it all. “He must love having you work for him,” he continued. “He’s not the only employer in town, ya know.”

      Shawn shrugged, and Dos jumped to his defence. “Easy money, Rhys. I say, use the man, for all he’s worth.”

      Rhys was more astute. “Did he have anything to do with your layoff?”

      Shawn shrugged again. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

      “Payoff for the layoff,” Dos muttered angrily. “Sue the bastard.”

      “That’s your answer to everything,” Rhys complained. “‘Use’ and ‘sue’ are not interchangeable.”

      Dos grinned. “Modern day equivalent to ‘chop off their heads’. Take ’em out at the knees, instead.”

      “Did they ever have a fire there?” Shawn asked abruptly.

      “At the Mill? Not that I ever heard,” Rhys told him. “Why? Bad wiring?”

      “Lousy.”

      “If you’re thinking about starting one,” Dos said sternly, “I wouldn’t. Even Arnie would conclude you were the source.”

      Shawn didn’t say any more, and Rhys changed the subject. He didn’t even bring up Gretchen, and her sudden appearance in a used car lot. He sensed Shawn’s pride had been pounded enough. If Shawn had wanted to talk about his money problems he would have done it weeks before.

      When Rhys and Dos went off to work, Shawn took off for the library. Classes started this afternoon, but he needed to sort a few things out—like why he was imagining fires where none had existed. Dwelling on human tragedy.

      Sick. For the first time since Merv had died, Shawn’s confidence in his own stability was shaken. Merv had always claimed he wasn’t “normal”. It was the biggest sin he could have committed in Merv’s eyes.

      And, after that day with the photographs, his mother had listened a lot more readily to Merv’s claims.

      But that was all a long time ago. Merv hadn’t really known anything about him, except that he suffered from nightmares. Shawn had mostly kept his thoughts to himself, away from Merv’s scrutiny. Nearly two decades had passed, and Shawn had outlasted Merv’s opinion. Over the last dozen years, in the long haul from teenager to independent, fully-functioning adult, he’d forced himself to forget the last of the Merv indoctrination. It had long ceased to matter whether Merv liked or accepted him. Merv was dead.

      And it was that which led Shawn to the library. Dammit, but he hadn’t thought of the man in years! Now, he was there, at his back.

      Rhys had been right. There’d never been a fire at The Majestic Mill. the Mill had been built in 1911, on the site of The Majestic Theatre. Hence, the name.

      I never knew...

      Shawn closed the file with icy fingers and walked away. He didn’t need to read any more; there wasn’t a school kid in Grantham who didn’t know the story of the old Majestic.

      Dancers, stage shows, vaudeville, even Shakespeare. Actors and singers, opera and burlesque, symphonies and soloists. The Majestic had done them all. It was the pride of a then-small community, and Grantham’s world had built up around it. There was a picture they pulled out once a year, and plastered on the front of the newspaper: grandes dames and gentlemen stepping from carriages in front of heavy Grecian columns, and moving up carpeted steps to elaborate double doors. The peek into yesteryear with its massive entry, curved stairwell, and enormous chandelier...

      Just as The Majestic’s presence was a matter of pride, its destruction had been the town’s worst tragedy. During a ballet, on the last night of the season, The Majestic had exploded in a mass of flame. Lightning had struck the copper dome at the front of the building, and a haze of green light had lit up the interior with an eerie glow. The newly installed wiring had overheated, to a sizzle and pop, and the oiled wooden panels had gone up in a blaze of heat and smoke. Over three hundred people had died—Grantham’s nobility, the upper echelon of its business rulers, its international connection to the expanding world. That day had marked a change in the social structure, and a move from an elite aristocracy to a much less wealthy—and far more corporate—bourgeoisie.

      The furthest thing from Shawn’s mind now was sleep. It would be far from dreamless, he was sure. That reminder of last night’s Hollowing was better than No-Doz, for keeping him moving. And it wouldn’t do any good to remind himself that his reactions might be overblown, due to his sleepless night, or that his subconscious was merely manifesting something he must have unknowingly heard, years before.

      Not when his clothes, his skin, the hairs in his nostrils, for crissake—held the rank scent of wood smoke.

      It was worse at home. Gratitude was waiting for him there. Gretchen was parked in his drive, and her keys under his doormat. And inside her, on the front seat, was Rhys’ camera. “On loan,” the note said, “to the new graphic designer.” There was nothing to explain Gretchen, or her sudden presence. They’d known each other long enough. Words would only embarrass them both.

      The part which bothered Shawn the most was an objective awareness that his pride should be smarting; that the forefront of his concern should be Rhys’—and no doubt Dos’—generous contribution to his welfare. That wasn’t what was getting to him, though. He was rattled far more by the sight of that camera, resting on the front seat. He hadn’t touched a camera in nearly twenty years.

      You’re letting yourself get spooked...

      And it suddenly made him furious. He was letting himself be crippled by his own insecurity—and that’s why he was overreacting. He’d tasted poverty, been short on food, lost the phone, and nearly lost the power. It had been like The Hollowing of his dreams. Nothing he’d done had fixed it—yet. Gretchen hadn’t sold and he wasn’t sure whether he could cut it as a graphic designer. He’d been away from school for eight years, and his field had never been the “arts”. But it was the best class on offer in the programme, and the only one which would lead somewhere he wanted to go.

      He’d be damned if he’d be a security guard forever. He needed to have the hope that he could excel at something, and without Arn’s reference, he didn’t have a fool’s chance of getting work in his own field.

      He could guess what Dos would say about his “nightmare”. “It’s your psyche, Man—trying to find any excuse to escape the monotony.” It would have bothered Shawn more if he could have denied the rationale, but God knows, Dos would have the right of it. Shawn hated the nightwatch thing, which was why he was going back tonight.

      Get past it.

      It was grudging, but he didn’t call to thank them for Gretchen. He was too angry with himself for his failure.

      He shaved, showered, and headed off to class.

      First assignment, photography segment: a black-and-white pictorial essay of Grantham’s history. Shawn put his doubts firmly out of his head, and slipped Rhys’ camera into his pack. the Mill, with its dust-laden furnishings and toppled chairs, would make a great subject.

      He was going to make his job anything but monotonous tonight.

*

      There was no reason to go inside. He spent the night prowling the perimeter, in-between long observation sessions in his car where he nibbled on sour cream-and-chives potato chips, drank chocolate coffee, and thumbed through a photography book he’d checked out of the library.

      Not such a bad job after all...

      There was only one heart-jolting episode, and he ignored that, too. It would never have happened if he hadn’t been primed by the panic from the night before. He was walking down the alley when a flicker of moving light danced in his peripheral vision. Flickers of yellow and orange, casting scorched silhouettes onto the window glass. He turned, and stood there, and made himself look.

      Nothing. It’s nothing. No fire. No flame. He moved on, and gradually his heart slowed back into a rhythm he could no longer feel.

*

      He never thought he’d get so excited over developing a few pictures. They were in the gang dark room, and he wasn’t the only enthusiastic one.

      I guess photography grows on you...

      He’d shot a roll of black and white that first night, then grew confident enough to shoot a roll inside the second night. He’d blocked the door with a chair, then quickly aimed and shot—a kind of staccato-blast camera assault that left his vision overlain with odd white flashes.

      He guessed nothing would turn out. No electricity, and only the camera’s flash for lighting.

      But even if nothing turns out, I’m getting a feel for the camera...

      As long as he didn’t spend too much on film, he could spend as much time developing it at Tech as he liked.

      The next day he stood there, with the other students, impatiently timing the negatives. As he lifted the film out of the dryer, he could see shadows on the frames. He was grinning like a buffoon, all traces of coolness gone; as excited as any other student in the class.

      He took the film over to the light box, and peered down at the negatives. His first thought was disappointment. Someone else’s shots. He’d pulled the wrong film off the drying rack.

      Dammit.

      He was about to discreetly return it when something caught his eye. He picked up the tethered magnifying glass and peered intently at the small sign. “Stage Door”.

      No.

      Gooseflesh was lifting the hair on his arms now as he went from shot to shot. It was a building he’d never seen before.

      No, that wasn’t quite true. There was one part of it he’d seen before, every year on the fifth of May.

      A black and white scene on the front page of the Grantham Gazette.

      At the Mill entrance, where fence and boards now blocked any entry, the barricade was a barely discernible grey, in a picture where the dominant images were immense columns and elaborate stairs.

      The figures were so tiny it was difficult to make them out.

      “Double exposure,” he mumbled. It had to be. Somehow, he’d overlain the shots. Except there shouldn’t have been people in any of them. If there was a distinct drawback to his job, it was its solitary nature.

      It sure didn’t look that way in the photos...

      Especially in one shot. He’d been in the alley, and he remembered aiming at the door. In a moment of photographic enthusiasm, he’d gone for the drama shot—wanting to capture the peeling paint and gouged graffiti of the padlocked door. “The Majestic Mill Today”: a statement in urban decline.

      The door was there—again, barely discernible. It was too eclipsed by a more novel facade. It was also blocked by a heavyweight with enormous fists and a bad attitude.

      Blocking the door. Keeping them out.

      Burly enough to keep people in? Shawn had a horrifying recollection of his own hands tearing at the doorknob, desperate to escape.

      Shawn’s limbs were ice as he went over to the drying cabinet, and pulled out the second roll of negatives. Better to walk away now...

      But he couldn’t. Death wish. Death watch.

      Don’t do it...

      He lifted the magnifying glass once more.

      The Majestic was a busy place. Lots of people, white as ghosts in the negative. Tidily translucent, and caught within the trappings of their time. The one that got him, though, was the last. Apparently, it had taken a few minutes before he’d gotten their attention. Now, they’d lined up for the shot.

      They were all looking, right at him.

      The cold in his limbs seemed to hit his chest then. The next moment Shawn was passed out on the photo lab floor.

*