Magnus Punch

	I made a fist.
	I’m not sure what came over me. I guess, when I realized that even my body wasn’t my own, the anger, fear and uncertainty of the last twenty-four hours reached critical mass. I’d been plucked out of my life. I’d been threatened, humiliated and forcibly upgraded. I hadn’t asked for a suite. I hadn’t asked for biceps.
	I hit the wall. Literally.
	My fist went straight through the tile, the plasterboard and a two-by-four stud. I pulled out my hand. I wriggled my fingers. Nothing felt broken.
	I regarded the fist-shaped hole I’d made above the towel rail. ‘Yep,’ I grumbled. ‘Housekeeping loves me.’