By John Strickland
an excerpt
Zac wrenched ineffectually in his straitjacket. His skills as an escape artist would do him no good in that maximum security prison restraint.
He didn’t know whether to find help or to hide. He just stood there bewildered for a while, his bare feet cold on the damp sidewalk.
A car went by. It didn’t even slow down. No-one in that car had noticed his plight.