1-2-3-4 → 2-1-3-4 → 3-1-2-4 → 4-1-2-3
A dark bedroom. Dark for a long time until a light goes on, blinding bright. The child blinks his eyes, turns the lamp away so the bulb shines into the wall. He pulls back his bedclothes and slides out, limping to a mirror. He rolls up his pyjama leg and studies his calves, where bruises mottle his pale skin. An accident while out on his bike? Play fighting that got out of hand? He takes some cream out a drawer and squirts a blob on his finger, dabbing it onto the bruises: he prods and pokes the bruises, winces. It clearly hurts.
He looks to the door, sits bolt upright like a gazelle. Leaps back into bed, switches off the light. A moment later the door opens and the tall mother(?) with the tight ponytail looks in, her stern face shaded by the dim hallway lights. Checking he’s in bed as he’s supposed to be! She must have her hands full with that one. The mother stands there for a minute, unmoving: is she going to catch him out, a peeping eye under the covers? She slinks out the door, closing it a little too forcefully: a little joke to show she knows he’s awake?