Slightly smaller than Joe-Eddy’s bedroom, the room beyond the second set of brown doors, less brightly lit, was empty, aside from a metal folding chair and something that reminded Verity of an Italian heater her mother had had, an electric oil-filled radiator, squat yet dynamic-looking. This one, though, was strapped to a hand trolley, tilted back against the wall. Her mother’s had been teal, chrome trim. This one, various shades of gray. "What’s that?" she asked.