Minerva stared at the old abandoned supermarket. It was big and empty and perfect for hiding. The shadows shielded her until she was inside. Now walls blocked her from the police. On the ceiling, dragon blood was dripping onto the cold tiled floor. Near the far wall, was a single trolly moulding through the floor. Many tipping shelves sat on the aisle walls. Feeling hungry, she reached for something – something moving, something scratching, something alive. Footsteps  sounded like a microphone; was it the police? Had they found her? She ducked behind a large crate waiting for the face that owned the footsteps…