FIMA STILL HAD A COUPLE OF HOURS LEFT BEFORE HE HAD TO BE at work. He thought he would change the sheets, and while he was at it his shirt and underwear and the dishtowels and the bathroom towels, and drop the whole lot off at the laundry on his way to the clinic. When he went into the kitchen to take the towel off its hook, he saw that the sink was full of dirty dishes and that there was a frying pan on the drainboard with pieces of food in it, while on the table the jam had congealed in a jar that had lost its lid. A rotting apple was attracting swarms of flies on the windowsill. Fima gingerly picked it up between forefinger and thumb, as though it might be contagious, and threw it in the trash can under the overfull sink. But the can was overfull too. The infected apple rolled off the top of the heap and managed to find itself a hiding place among the old canisters and bottles of cleaning fluid. It could only be reached by getting down on all fours. Fima made up his mind that this time there would be no compromise, he would not give up as usual, he would recapture the fugitive at all costs. If he succeeded, he would take it as a green light, and he would maintain the momentum by taking the trash can downstairs to empty it. On the way back he would remember to fish the newspaper and his mail out of the box at last. He would continue by washing and tidying the refrigerator, and at the risk of making himself late he would even change the sheets.