It did quiver to the touch. And it seemed to shrink. Its small extended limbs seemed to come in, to try to close, to cover its vulnerable front. It was as if a shadow briefly crossed its dream. Its uncontaminated dream. A slight disturbance in its sleep. A breeze rippled something that was closed, and lifted, for a second, an opening of sorts. A memory of something. A dim recall in the dirty street. It was nothing, was it? I prodded a dead mouse with my pen. There in the street. I crouched and touched its corpse. I felt a small resistance. Give and no give and give - a weak bundle of death on the end of my pen. I could have flicked it in the air with barely an effort. It was nothing. Nothing. It should have been nothing. It should have been utterly nothing.