The next morning Gwen awoke to a sustained but orderly shuffling of boots, bags and paraphernalia and watched in bewilderment how the seven were quietly preparing for what looked like a military campaign.

They looked serious and none of them was speaking, which rose Gwen’s anxiety to panic levels. She didn’t dare ask what they were doing.

No. 5 spoke eventually.

“Are you coming?”

“Where are you going?”

“Fishing.”

“In the middle of the desert?”

No. 5 pointed to the creek in the valley. Its waters looked murky and ochre after the rain, and raged, powerless, against their banks, carrying dead sticks, straw and debris.

“What could possibly live in that?”

“Catfish.”

“I don’t know how to fish,” she hesitated.

“Suit yourself,” No. 5 replied as he walked to the door.