All too soon the weekend ended; time to go back to Portora. At least I had my rabbit pelt, though within a few days it wasn’t nearly as soft and fluffy as it had been. Tufts of hair began falling out, and it developed a distinct funk that wasn’t the dirty rugby shorts and socks at the bottom of my locker. I first thought it was the nearby bogs until I took a close look at it.
Terrence Murphy, a sixth former, walked up in Wellies, casually cradling a double-barreled shotgun. “You didn’t cure it, did you?” he said.
“No,” I said meekly.
Terrence shook his head, grinned, and walked away.
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~ The Troubles
