The instant the countdown had ended, Digger had turned his back to the Cornucopia and bolted, sprinting down the concrete streets without regard for stealth or destination, and spent his first freezing-cold night curled up in the tall grass growing against the fence at the fringes of the park, trying not to shiver too loudly. He hadn't slept.

He's exhausted, running on adrenaline and terror, when he spots the merry-go-round - his first fevered thought is that, big and ugly and exposed as it is, it might make for a hiding place no one would expect, if he could shimmy up into the rafters, or worm his way down between corroded floorboards. He has no weapon and no supplies, and all he wants is to disappear.

He jumps onto the merry-go-round and immediately makes for the thick center column - as luck would have it, exactly the side that Gylfie is not on. He presses himself against it briefly, catching his breath, tilting his head up to look for a possible handhold in the beams and rusted clockwork above him. His heart is going so fast, he's amazed it hasn't given him away.