Steps closer. Coming in. Clod? Is it? No, isn’t. Not Clod. Someone in grey trousers. Standing in the room, just by the sofa. Walking up and down now. Waiting. Go on. Go away. But the trousers didn’t. They stopped there, even sat down on the seat. Got up again. Knelt down. Trousers put his hands under the sofa, he’s got me, he’s found me! Only not. He pulled out my skillet, he took my skillet. Trousers sat down again, my skillet on his lap. Trousers got up again, paced the room again. Once even kicked the door. Scuff on shoe from that. Sat down again. Patted the sofa. But then, at last, one more pacing and then out. Gone. Door closed again. I got up. I’m not staying here. Clod, where are you? The door opened again. I ducked down. Looked out from under the sofa. Clod? The same shoes, the same trousers. As if the trousers were watching the room. Isn’t safe here, isn’t.

Then trousers were gone again. I waited. Nothing but the storm. I got up around to the door and opened the door and went out of that trap. Footsteps behind me? Thought so. On! On! Another door. Which one? This one. Get in. In I was. Footsteps going past, someone running. Safe. Close. Very. Must find Clod. Where is he? Find him. Room to room if necessary. Well then, first this one.