What is it, Andrew asked? He had noticed me stopping in a small pipe. I reached out and

looked a small piece of red and silver metal that had been purged on a steaming pipe, close

to chest height. He was folded into the shape of a deer.

My father makes these out of coke cans, and I said, holding it in front of my torch. He

gives him to us on Christmas and on birthdays. They're little things, but they build up over

the time. I've dozens all lined up. He must have left this for us.

So we're on the right track, Kaz said. His directions are actually right.

It had been six days since my father had gone into hiding in the London Underground, but

this was the first time I thought I might actually find him.

Quietly, I pocketed a little figurine and tried to kindle the feeling of hope it gave

me. He must have meant a lot to you, Kaz whispered.

He's kind, I replied. Everyone hears schizophrenia, and they think psychopath, but that's not true

at all. He lives in a scary world filled with voices and strange patterns. He's vulnerable,

not dangerous. He must have been having a bad episode to come down here.

He said he's done this before though, Andrew said. At least that means he knows what

he's doing. Yeah, I replied. It's just he was 4-3 when he last spent some time down

here. He's 65 now and struggles with stairs. I held up the bizarre list of directions

it left me, some of which included ten-foot drops onto hard concrete.

How's he going to manage this? I've never heard of a telecom's bunker anywhere in this

part of the Underground, William said.

If he's where his letter says he is, Andrew interrupted, flashing his brother a dirty

look. We'll find him. We know everything down here.

...