He wasn’t just any old hobbit. He was Sam. Samwise Gamgee, the bravest of them all, and the butterfly pin in his hand was an elf sword.

That’s right, keep thinking about something else.

It was darker back here away from the windows, and the smell was even worse. He remembered the time he lost his lunch box. He thought he’d left it at school. It turned up weeks later under a seat in the car. When Sam opened it, it was full of stale air and rotting food and horrible green fungus that sent up a cloud of spores when it was disturbed. He actually had been sick then, the smell had been so bad.

This was worse. His eyes were stinging.

Dirty bastards . . .

He edged his way forward, scanning the floor for any sleeping bodies, feeling gently with his toes, holding his nose with his fingers and breathing through his mouth. This place must be full of germs. Was it bad to breathe them in?

He spotted what looked like a door, on the far side of the room, past a bar. He headed for it, speeding up slightly. Halfway there a figure loomed up in front of him, and his heart caught in his ribs.

One of the grown-ups had woken.

Sam dropped to the floor and flattened himself against the sticky carpet, pressing his face down so that he would be hard to spot. Sometimes it was good to be small.

The grown-up shuffled past a few inches from where Sam was lying. As soon as he had gone, Sam scuttled over to the bar and crouched down behind it.

He could sense that the grown-up had heard something, though. It made a strangled sound and began to move about in the dark.

Sam was still clutching the butterfly pin. It wasn’t enough. He needed to find something else he could use as a weapon. With his other hand he felt around on the shelves behind the bar. There must be something. A corkscrew maybe, or even a knife. His hands closed over a hard plastic object. He ran his fingers over it, trying to work out what it was.

A cigarette lighter.

Better than nothing. It might help him to see where he was going, if he ever got out of here. He slipped it into his pocket and kept on searching.

He found nothing else and eventually the grown-up stopped moving about. Sam left it as long as he could—he was so close to getting out he couldn’t stand waiting here any longer.

He peered around the end of the bar. Nothing. No movement. Only those dark shapes on the floor. He tiptoed to the door, passing through a wet patch. He didn’t like to think what it might be, but it made his feet suck and squelch.

It sounded horribly loud to him, but he couldn’t stop.

Keep moving, Sam. Just get out of here.

He was at the door. It was open.