He still had three months to go when he grew tired of his mother's womb, which was nothing but a padded cell as far as he was concerned. So he severed the umbilical cord and dog-paddled his way out, by the only channel known to him, at the great surprise and displeasure of his mother (she was at the movies). Since they weren't able to persuade him to get inside again, they took him to an incubator. He had a hard time there. The place was soft and warm and silent and quiet, but it was no fun at all and he had trouble breathing. He started to miss the umbilical cord too, the only toy he had ever known. He didn't try a second breakout immediately, though. This one demanded a more elaborate planning and he still felt weak, a shrivelled shrimp out of water. He slept a good deal, gorged himself with nutritious liquids, watched and listened. Little by little, he figured out the entire world. The nurses' schedule. The feeding hours. The diaper hours. The digital clock on the far wall. The lock on the incubator. The other babies. A scheme started to emerge in the not-so-complicated-yet neuronal maze of his unfinished mind. All he needed now was a weapon (a thermometer would do), and