hellingly | the gt hine lock-in

The dark clouds gathered, casting dark shadows over the rich red bricks of the asylum. Smorgy walked briskly, but not too briskly. She was aware of the security guard behind her, but didnít want to seem too hurried or concerned. Finally she saw her chance, veering off onto a trampled path across the airing court; a path used by the dog walkers and the ramblers, a path away from the hospital, a path away from the security guardís endless cycles.

He marched on. Whoever she was, she wasnít hanging around, and he did have other things to do. There was a hole in the fence that needed repairing.

Smorgy peered around from behind a tree and cautiously followed. She thought about phoning us. But we hadnít agreed on anything. We didnít have a protocol. She didnít know if the phone would give us away.