Lucy felt her way back to the long bench. She had stopped a few moments earlier, having heard muffled shouts from somewhere far away. Or had she? She didn't know. But all was silent now, and she had to get on with her business.

    There were two drawers. She opened them, felt around, discovered some sandpaper, an oily rag, book matches, a pair of short screwdrivers. She felt the tips. One slot head, one Phillip's.

    On top of the bench were a few more rags, along with a small stack of papers, some dried-out magazines. There was also an old lantern. Lucy picked it up, gave it a shake. There was liquid inside - she immediately caught a whiff of old kerosene.

    She went back to the drawer, found the matches, opened one pack. They were damp. She tried them anyway. One by one, they smeared on the flint strip. Not even a spark. She found another pack, felt the matches. The top row seemed damp, the back row less so. She peeled off the top row of matches. She picked up one of the old magazines, tore off a page, rolled it up.

    She tried the first match, got a spark, but the paper didn't light. On her third try she got a flame. She held the lit match to the rolled-up paper, got a torch going. She then pushed down the lift lever on the lantern. The wick caught, and the room was suddenly bathed in a warm glow. Lucy had never been more grateful for anything in her life.