Shortages of Blood

It’s not like he had planned to visit, but after five long, wet hours, the downpour outside is showing no signs of slowing down. The museum is a proper building at least, not the wood and cardboard that every other house in this city seems to be built of. The floors are reasonably wide and airy, the lighting mildly pleasant. He saunters into one room after the other, looks at exhibits and pretends to read the signs next to them. Some of them don’t have signs at all.