The morning Peter got out of the wrong side of bed, he tumbled into the narrow space and squeezed through the window. The neighborhood fought valiantly to keep him. The hosepipes coiled around his legs, and the pushchairs threw themselves into his path, and the car alarms wailed like orphans. But he ran on, his feet crushing the lawns.
He yelled something, but the Committee could never agree whether it was “Freedom!” or “Help me!” Eventually his house was reassigned to a nice couple with two children, a gas barbecue, and a king-sized bed they kept pushed right against the wall.
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