Well before the new day begins, he leaves his makeshift dwelling, wipes off the titanium dishes lying in front of the entrance with a rag, and puts them into his backpack with his other belongings. Overnight, the fire burned down to a shiny black and silver heap. He covers his tracks, scatters the ashes in the wind and packs an empty tin can – Erasco Feuertopf – that lies near the scorched grass, into a plastic bag and sets off in the direction of the southeast, to where he thought he had recognized the lights of a city the night before.

At dusk, he emerges from a grove of trees and looks at a farm with scattered stable buildings and a run-down shed. To his left a corral, the ground trampled to mud still sadly empty at this hour. His gaze wanders across the stables to the house. A dog barks then falls silent only a short time later, apparently falling back into his sleep. Everything is silent. Carefully he crosses a square gravelled with rubble, passes the corral to his left, then skims the back wall of the shed and crosses an orchard that stretches along the edge of the homestead. Old, long unpruned treetops above tall grass. At the end of the orchard, he creeps under the low-hanging branches of a hazelnut, into a thicket of bushes and shrubs. With a long stride, he crosses a small stream that flows murkily and sluggishly through the undergrowth, and he lies down on its protective bank, watching the road that leads to the city. Only a few of the houses are already illuminated. In the glow of a courtyard light, a man in red work pants climbs into a car and wearily steers his Octavia out of town, heading north. Probably the morning shift at the Schkeuditz plant, he thinks to himself. Another few minutes pass, and he lies motionless in the damp grass, looking at the settlement in front of him. Nothing seems to be moving. He decides to go closer, steps out of the bushes towards the road and then follows a sparsely overgrown ditch that runs along the edge of the asphalt road. Suddenly, he notices a magenta-colored glow of light rising on the white wall of a gable roof that is getting closer and closer to him. He pauses, sits down in the long grass and fumbles in his trouser pockets with his right hand. A few coins, apparently the last of his money. Otherwise, only the Visa Gold Card from Hanseatic. By this time, someone should already be in the office. Was his suggestion to overhaul the ordering and controlling system accepted and implemented? He could pass behind the two houses, along their hedges, into the playground that colorfully peeks out between them. Then he would almost be at the telephone booth. If he does it right, no one would notice him.

He quietly lets the glass door close behind him, glances around once more and searches his trouser pockets for the change. The shrill metallic sound of the coins falling down the designated slot makes him cringe. Hesitantly, he dials the company's number and takes a deep breath. A short crackle in the line, then the beep of the dial tone. Suddenly he remembers that the financial figures were probably published last week. Another short crackle, this time on the other end of the line, “DH Consulting & Solutions GmbH, Secretary for Dr. Blaier. How may I help you?” Everything starts spinning in his head. Hastily, he hangs up the phone.