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The old woman doesn't look as impressed as I'd hoped. I'm at the last stage of a survival process in an old Gothic building I can't escape from - every exit seems to lead into a dark alleyway where a hooded man waits with a knife to stab me. Failing an examined stage in the building means death, but I'm not worried as I've been tipped off - we have to write a play to be performed in three days time, so I've pre-prepared. The old woman shuffles my papers. My play is a silent interpretive dance set over three stages of life - a field, an urban scene and a graveyard. In the final scene there are some sad dogs. 'What are these?' she asks, pointing at them. At this point I notice another play from someone else on the desk. It depicts an enormous animated Kraken in the ocean, grabbing and smashing ships on rocks, sailors scream and drown, fires burn. It's amazing. 'They're wolves,' I say, 'giant, undead wolves.'