And dead center, at the focal point of all this, standing with its head wrenched back, is a fighting dummy-one of those big, muscly torsos that you can practice punching or, in Zayn’s case, fire into hundreds of times with arrows. On the far side of the yard is a 25-foot Native American teepee, like something out of Neverland. Handwritten on the door are the bar’s “hours” (it never closes) and the message “I pissed inside.” The building appears to have been shot up by paintballs. A rope bridge leads past graffitied plywood reading “Fuck this life” to a garden shed that’s been converted into a pirate-themed pub. Boxed on his porch is a high-powered Predator CarbonLite crossbow. These are the hobbies of a rich young man, but entering Zayn’s backyard stirs up an eerie feeling of boyhood bumping up against something darker.
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