The next room is easier. White paint is peeling off the walls. Sun comes in through the large window and dust hangs thick in the air, but the smell doesn't make her sick.

The sink is corroding, but the brownish stains at the bottom is almost certainly blood, not rust. She swabs it with a piece of cotton on a stick. Hank will analyse it later. He'll have to think about what it is, what it means; she doesn't. She is only eyes to see through and hands to pick up and carry. Even so, the taste of metal in her mouth seems to grow stronger.

The instruments on the counter were made in Germany. Scissors, foreceps and scalpel, all made of matte stainless steel. She tries the scissors. Both the legs slide smoothly around the bolt with hardly a whisper. Someone cared a great deal for these instruments, so she is careful too, dropping them into a plastic bag, sealing them in.

She grabs the handful of needles off the lab bench. A couple break between her fingers, they always do. Nothing here can hurt her. It's important to remember that.

Maybe they worked on rats in this room, she thinks. They had to work on rats somewhere before moving on to humans. Then she's done. She crosses the room number off the list before she, too, moves on.