Inside are rows and rows of dead bodies stacked up – one on top of the other. Skeletons wearing striped jackets, with six-pointed stars sewn over their hearts. I get out of bed, make sure the blackout's in place. Then I switch on the light. The Van Gogh looks as if it's shifted a bit on the wall. I take it down. The nail's come loose. I'd better not hammer it back tonight. I put the print on the table next to the cocoa – there's skin on top. I drink it anyway. Can't bear to waste something with sugar in it. Actually, cocoa's not bad cold. I sit cross-legged on my bed and look at the clean square of yellow paint – much brighter than the rest of the wall – where the Van Gogh normally hangs. A long time ago there was a cream-colored wall in another room. … A little girl sits cross-legged on the floor and looks for hours at a picture of a horse standing on the edge of a yellow cornfield, surrounded by emerald green hedges. The horse is red and tosses its blue mane, flicks its blue tail.
