Beneath the newspaper bundles there’s another room, cold and dim. Aniridia looks down, realizing for the first time that the light comes from nowhere here. None of the rooms has had the courtesy to provide a lantern.

“It is very dark,” she mutters to herself. “You may be eaten.”

The rough-edged hole she’s torn is not a way out, but it’s a way different. She thinks of her father, diving into deep cold water, holding his breath twice the length of the pool.

As she lowers herself into it, Aniridia leaves fingerprints on its edges. The newsprint looks like ash.