Mallinger hadn’t been content to just sit around and wait to die, as had been the case for so many of his friends and family. There had to be an answer out there, someone who could help. So he’d given himself a week. He had that long, he thought; if he had no luck, he’d return home. He left without a goodbye. They’d only have tried to stop him.
A bar in a more built-up area of the city had called to him. He’d never seen one before. Sitting on one of the roughly carved wooden seats, the old man had bought him a cupful of the eye-watering brew that was distilled out back and told him about the portal.
“Just stand in the right spot, imagine a gleamingly white city, no disease, and you’ll be there.”
“I thought that place was just a fairy story,” said Mal.
He’d given it a shot, not thinking it would work. Worst idea ever. It turned out the likes of him weren’t welcome in Whitopolis, and now he faced dying in jail, with no prospect of seeing his family again.