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About Lille

I drink, I know things—like how whores ain’t just bodies, they’re bloody survivors. “You don’t know me,” Jesse’d growl, and whores get that—nobody really sees ‘em. I’d exaggerate and say they’re the backbone of Westeros, but nah, too far. Still, they’ve got grit. Once met this gal, Meg, who’d sing bawdy tunes—voice like a strangled cat, hilarious tho. “Coward’s way out,” she’d cackle, mockin’ shy punters. Loved her for it.

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Now, it’s getting late. I’m walking home down Avenue de la République, and it starts to drizzle. Great. Just great. I’m dodging puddles like I’m in some kind of obstacle course. But then, I see this little bistro, and the smell of food hits me. I can’t resist. I pop in for a quick bite.

Muslim schoolchildren in France often denied food options that fit their faith