I am surprised to find the ringer to Mauswick’s Memorial Bell exactly where I left it—nestled in oily rags, under a pile of canned goods collecting dust in E5, where even a grimer would be hard-pressed to find it.

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Once again, it is Beethoven who spares me when I have no choice but to cross the wolves in the corridor, sledding past with my potted meat and spilling vegetables piled high, though he is considerably lacking in what warmth I remember, his once-puny face now grown long and grizzled. Eyes much sadder. Sparkless, only half willing to rise and greet mine.

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I am glazed in sweat by the time I strike the bell, hear it peel out through the park like water insidiously spreading. It is the only thing loud enough to lure them away from their death-inviting hijinks. Before they find my grimy tower of cans awaiting them at the west gate, though – a feast fit for miniature kings – I’ll watch those albino bumps in the water beginning to circle them.

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They’ll never know how close to the end they were…as I’ll never know why I stopped them, when their presence here could only mean one thing: a bloody calamitous fate for us all, of the lucky few luckless still-living.