[Blake goes in ahead of her, weapon at the ready, like the man is supposed to.]

Yeah, I've been in some lunatic hoarders' places.

[He peers down the dark hall. A finger of cold breeze from nowhere brushes against his neck. His hand grips the curtain rod hard. He makes his voice steady, dammit.]

There was this one with a closet, the thing had at least six padlocks. Not little wussy bike locks either, big ugly metal things that could hold down a Mac truck. Like Al Capone's vault. The guys sawed it open, while this lady's screeching and howling, and you know what it was? Dog food. Pounds and pounds of it, twenty years old.

[He stalks down the hall, eyes sweeping back and forth, ignoring the shadows that don't stay in the right place.]

Didn't even have a dog.