Before the boy could react, the Fatty turned and walked away. The next second, the hair tied beneath the umbrella could hold on no longer and snapped. A knife-slashed, battered arm shot out from the umbrella and plunged into the boy's mouth, which had gaped wide with fear.
Hearing the ghastly sounds of his innards being churned to mush behind him, the Fatty didn't dare look back. He just quickened his pace, thinking that he was the one who'd run into this. He had a good character and had never wronged a lover; if it had been the Doctor instead, there might have been another new umbrella in that bamboo basket.
He continued climbing the bridge. The higher he went, the colder it became. The Fatty wrapped his clothes tighter around himself, but they were already soaked through, and the cold wind made him shiver uncontrollably.
Fog blanketed the bridge. For safety and out of everyday habit, the Fatty kept to the right. Both sides of the bridge had railings, made of a different material than the bridge itself. They were pitch-black and gleamed eerily in the lantern's ghastly green light.
Water roared beneath the bridge. He could imagine a vast river raging below his feet. According to legend, it was filled with severed limbs and pus and blood. Even a soul that stepped into it would never float back up.
The Fatty was full of curiosity about this river that existed only in legend. He really wanted to lean over the railing and take a look, but reason stopped him. That would only invite trouble.
His peripheral vision caught something. The Fatty's eyes widened, and his pupils slowly contracted. A pair of feet had appeared on the railing—large, bare feet. They weren't standing on it; their insteps hooked over