The beam of a flashlight came looming out of the Stygian gloom, a disgruntled 'Englishman' at its source. Yes, there he was. Javert was talking to some teenager, and...giving his box-cutter to him?! Was the Inspector insane? Wait. Stupid question.

"Good evening, Inspector," Trevelyan said, and nodded to the teenager. He hadn't met the boy before, but then again, he hadn't met a large portion of the population here.

His own flashlight was beginning to die - this was what, his fourth night here? The batteries were in the improvised sack slung over his shoulder, as were the rest of the essentials: burn cream and morphine tablets. The steak knife, his only real weapon, was clutched in the same hand as his flashlight.