There is an empty bedroom and a trail of dropped blankets, teddy bears and stuffed dolls leading out through the door, which is ajar, into the living room. The trail disappears but is taken over by footprints. The TV is on, hissing static and snow into the room like an open window in a storm. The tiny sole-marks are almost oversnowed now, but there is another, larger, set of prints around them. Both sets lead into the machine. There is a thick rope, too, tied to one of the legs of the marble coffee table. It is stretched taut now.