The beast from the wooden box wrapped its luminescent legs around her stony face, just about cradling her head enough to prevent it from tumbling from the worn corduroy headrest and onto the floor. It snaked its sneaky tendrils through her pupils, down her optic nerves, and in through her ear canals, and round and round in a spiral, injecting its juices straight to her brain. A cigarette puppeteered her arm to her face and coughed onto her tongue.

Rachel poked her head through the hatch. “Mum I’m going out.”

“Mm, thank you.” said Mum.

“What? I said I’m going out.”

“Mmm in the fridge love.”

And so Rachel grabbed her bag, whose chain handle clinked and clacked against the kitchen countertop, and she went out.