When London got finished off by the Martians, Max and I headed south. It turned out, though, when we got down south we had to turn round and head back on ourselves in a meandering circular route taking us all over the place back up down to London beacause Max had left the gas off accidentally when really he had intended to leave the water off accidentally.
On the way he told me about an old friend of his who had one of those names like A. N. Other or R.U. Ill, but I'd heard that story before and didn't much care for it then so I switched off his damn keyboard.
Later that evening, the sun was low and the hills were high and they met in the middle, in what Max would have called a 'horizon' if he hadn't vowed silence after our argument. I didn't care too much to tell the truth. I still had a pen with me and I could draw horizons on the back of my hand whenever the hell I felt like it. Hold them up against the sky, put them in my pocket - whatever the hell I wanted. Max didn't like that much and the next morning when I woke up I found an infantile drawing of a horse in my sleeping bag.
I could tell Max was sorry, though. He was sat on a rock with his sleeping bag over his trunk, waving it to and fro, pretending to be a windsock.
Later, we shook hands and I apologised for turning his keyboard off. Max took the horse picture and drew a stick man on its back and a smile on the horse's face. It was a way he had of saying sorry when he still had a sleeping bag over his head. I remember the name now; it was Sy Snootles.
Max was going to be big.