He didn't know. He had no number to guide him. He only had his tiny, trembling self, and the memory of the journey. The Grease-Falls. The Warden. The leap.
Finally. The 10th Junction.
A waterfall of congealed cooking fat, solid and slow-moving, cascaded from a grating above. It was a 1-in-10 grade, almost vertical for someone his size. He backed up, took a running start—a frantic jiggling of his spherical form—and launched himself. flushed away 1 10
He looked at the hundred dark tunnels. Then he looked up, at the faint, watery light from the manhole cover. He didn't know
He landed in a pool of stagnant tea, shared a brief, silent greeting with a piece of floating parsley, and continued. The Grease-Falls
He hit the grease and didn't slip. He stuck . Panic welled. He was a drop of water on a hydrophobic surface. He was immobile.