The tortoise was a dusty old thing, barely hanging onto life. Its toothless maw gaped slightly in that puckered sort of way, parched of the youth it yearned for. Each wrinkled step was arduous. Aimless. There was no reason to keep on walking. Yet it did. Step after heaving step. One stalky stump in front of the other. That was all there was left to do. The only sparks of joy left in its life were wilted cabbage shreds. Even those, it seemed, became farther and fewer between. It was munching a last sad sliver between toothless jaws. There was not much in the way of sunlight, either. It had a window, yet the blinds were always drawn down to cover the overcast gray sea of London sky. Sometimes, the tortoise leaned a little too far and ended up belly-up on its sandy shell. Its feet waggled helplessly in the air until it gave up and just sat and rocked, waiting for some outside force to right it. It led a lonely life.