When I wake up, it’s about mid-day. At least, that’s what I figure based on my incredibly, ultra-amazing abilities of judging the location of the sun.

I find two bags of groceries on the table with a note:

I hope you cook.

“Yeah, why’s that, Fred?” I say to no one. “What am I? Your cook? Your wife?”

I manage to make myself dry scrambled eggs with toast and marmalade jam and eat out on the steps. Despite the fact that this is now technically my prison – one surrounded by people-eating wolves and managed by a massive, would-be murderer with a celebrity-child name, it’s actually beautiful.

My life is...