Four bags of water will clean: many things.
A dying mother bird ash-cemented into its nest, refused to leave its seven eggs --also all cleaned.
A throat parched bloody.
Forty two finger tips.
The lips of a satyr.
Many more things, besides.
Todd was stuck. The boar had slunk back to his apartment and broken back in: up the fire escape and snorting through the door.
The boar had leaped, ballerina graceful, onto his kitchen table, then swan dived snout first onto it, hind hooves shattering the hanging light fixture. The table shattered, The Octopus woke.
Todd found himself flung to the floor --used to be the wall-- fell through his door and clung precariously, teeth grinding, to the slick black bannister, praying he didn't slip and fall the half block the wall of the next apartment building.
He'd been in the middle of Toa's climb up the edge of the crater. She was down to one flask of water and the climb was proving treacherous. Toa had lost two of her flasks, one empty, one full.
The boar screeched and the fire alarm started screeching, too. Smoke poured out and up the stairs to the ground --now the sky-- and Todd was dangling, about to fall through his door, through his kitchen, into his bathroom, into his shower if luck was a thing.