And they talk. Information about the city and its possible escape routes is swapped. Cigarettes are smoked to glowing stumps.

Sooner or later, Jack begins to yawn over a bag of potato chips.

It's time to go back to bed.















And then later, it's the morning.

There's a note on the arm of the couch, written on a scrap of paper scavenged from the waste-paper basket. The handwriting is an awkward cursive, very careful, every t crossed and every i dotted with great concentration.

Gud Morning I
am at the
Bathisfear