He switched off the penlight for a moment and examined the pale moonbeam that sliced through a gap between the curtains. The narrow strip of light reached to the middle of the crib, slashing across the baby’s pink blanket and the pocket of Kawashima’s corduroy slacks. As a little boy he’d often sat in his room, with the moon his only source of light, drawing pictures of a long, narrow road that vanished in the distance. Remembering those times, and taking care not to prick his finger, he lifted the ice pick from his pocket. He closed his right hand around the handle and gently drew back the baby’s blanket with his left. This exposed her neck and upper chest, whiter and softer even than the bread Yoko baked. He switched the penlight back on and shone it upon her cheeks and neck. It seemed to him that the fragrance of fresh bread grew suddenly more pronounced, mixed with another scent he didn’t recognise. He wasn’t aware of the beads of perspiration on his forehead and temples until he saw one drip on to the baby’s blanket. The panel heater against the wall had warmed the room somewhat, but it was far from hot in here. The tip of the ice-pick was quivering slightly. Another bead rolled down Kawashima’s saturated eyebrow and into the corner of his eye.

That’s sickening, he thought, and squeezed his eyes shut. Didn’t even know I was sweating. Couldn’t even feel it. Like it isn’t me the sweat’s pouring down but a wax figure of me, or some stranger who looks just like me. Damn.

As he opened his eyes he found that his senses of sight and sound and smell were getting entangled with one another, and now came a snapping, crackling sensation and a pungent whiff of something organic burning. Yarn or fingernails, something like that.