Blake awoke slowly, groggily from his blackout. He couldn't see anything, and he was stuck under a large object which felt like rubber. As Blake came to, he remembered what had happened, how Goldie had ground him repeatedly, how he had been broken. Blake realised was under Goldie's sneaker, but that dreaded weight was gone, so she wasn't wearing this shoe. Blake took a long time to recover the use of his body. When he could finally manipulate his body properly, he crawled out from under the shoe.

When he climbed out, Blake was greeted with wriggling toes clad in white cotton socks. He looked up, at the pair of feet in front of him, and the bare legs, dwarfing him under the table like tree trunks, then he turned his focus to the room itself, to its lemon-yellow walls enveloped in posters of muscly young spotsmen, pasted hastily and hanging askew, to the bed set at the opposite end of the room, its beige bedsheets ruffled and unneat, and lastly, the occasional chocolate wrapper, empty chips packet or dirty sock. To think that Blake was really here, in Goldie Coine's room. It certainly made up for the trouble Blake had gone through to get here. Now, Blake formulated a plan to get Goldie's attention.