Flushed Away 1 10 -

The drop felt the pull of the oil's embrace. It would be easy to merge, to lose his tiny, frantic self in that oily, indifferent calm. No more counting. No more climbing.

The rain fell in sheets, a percussive drumming against the London cobblestones. Beneath the city, in the great churning arteries of the sewer system, it sounded different. There, it was a muffled roar, a constant white noise that blended with the hiss of steam and the distant, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the great pumps.

For a scrap of a thing, no bigger than a thimble, that noise was a lullaby. flushed away 1 10

He started to climb anyway. Because 10 had taught him the rule, and 1 had shown him the truth: It only takes one. One moment of impossible, stubborn, tiny hope. And the courage to fall, just so you can learn to climb.

He began to roll, not towards the outflow, but towards the wall. He found a rough patch of brick, a vertical ladder of microscopic crystals. He started to climb. The drop felt the pull of the oil's embrace

Which pipe led to the river? Which led to a garden hose? Which led to a dead end, a forgotten drain, an eternal darkness?

He landed in a pool of stagnant tea, shared a brief, silent greeting with a piece of floating parsley, and continued. No more climbing

"No," he said, and his voice was a high, clear chime. He jumped . He launched himself over the oil's slick back, a perfect parabola of distilled courage. He landed on the other side with a splash and didn't look back.