A white table and three chairs were standing in the far corner of the room. The writing desk was a tall, dirty surface surrounded by empty plastic tubs. On the sideboard were stuffed dozens and dozens of sheets of paper, a raincoat, and a spare pair of pants. On the floor over in the far corner, Bruno had crouched, and he was still bobbing up and down, drooling at the mouth, and dreaming constantly of the jars of beer he might have had at home.