High up and to the side, a tiny cupboard that he found by stacking a chair on the sideboard and a box on the chair. He gingerly reached up and tugged at the white door, it was stiff but came open with a crack. Nothing inside but some dried up dusty stuff, might once have been a vegetable, and some torn scraps of paper. This little nest, high up in the body, the cell where he dwelt, the alternate place, the parallel time, that was never entirely erased.