The small, round man, who smells of sweat, leaves a trail behind him. Papers and cards and objects in bags, reasons to return, reasons to exist. He places images of himself in prominent places. Like a fungus, he creates an unseen network of fibres, a web of life-sucking mycelia, hyphae that colonise and absorb. He has a set of keys cut for his own use, so that he can come and go as he pleases. He spends money that is not his, making himself seem generous in the process. ‘Liar,’ thinks the sister. ‘Crook,’ thinks the brother. The small, round man, who sweats and leaves the air smelling stale, dissembles. As he spins another yarn, his beady eyes survey how much of it has been accepted. He is here to visit a friend. He is here to support the mistress of the house. He is here to get away from the pressures of his home life. He is here to reconnect. His words are shown to be lies by his actions, though. He is here to extract as much as he can get away with. He is here to feather his nest. ‘Imposter,’ thinks the sister. ‘Con-man’, thinks the brother.