He crept up to the tiny mountain, watching the last few inhabitants scurry inside, one carrying a grain of rice, another a grain of sand. His eyes were dark and focused. Snot wound its way carelessly down his upper lip, almost to his mouth, before he gave a violent sniff, trapping it and sucking it back up into his nasal cavity. It left behind a trail of grime that matched the dirty track marks of tears long forgotten on his cheeks. He ground a filthy fist into his eye, as though suddenly reminded of the shame of this morning, of yesterday, of a thousand mornings. Crouching low, so that the Old Man wouldn’t see him, he armed himself with the blowtorch he’d stolen from the neighbour’s garage, pulled the goggles down over his face, and allowed his expression to go completely blank. It was time to release them all from the pain of futility.