The windows were all provided with flypaper. Strips of it hung from the ceiling, too, all through the room. William had lost several clumps of hair to them already.
He was crouching now, setting the mousetraps. They didn’t have bait; he wasn’t sure what would work. He compensated through numbers, laid in a careful grid to ensure maximum floor coverage.
The shotgun was loaded with birdshot and propped by the bedside. The motorcycle helmet rested on the pillow.
William probed about in his mouth with his tongue, his scowl deepening. This was the last night! he vowed. No more teeth!
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