Sammy dials through the frequencies,
one hand cupping his headphones to his ear.
'She's been in there too long,' he mutters,
'I don't like it.' The van is heaped
with cables and listening equipment.
I am sipping a Starbucks latte and watching Sam,
who is guiding Mirelda through her cheeky little reconnoitre
into the wet belly of Hell.
She's meant to be pinching a fang out the crimson head
of Satan himself - we need it
to win the scavenger hunt. 'Mirelda?
Do you read me? Come in. Over.'
Sam has maps spread out in front of him.
I spilled coffee on one and he's not even noticed.
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