The Octopus stared angrily at Todd until he woke with a start, which wasn't very long. The Octopus had a hard stare.
It tapped Todd's laptop angrily, impatiently, with a staccato three tentacle tap-taaap-tp. The Octopus signed: Write more now, quickly. Over and over, and quickly until Todd sighed and closed his eyes and forced his weary fingers to move.
Todd wrote about how Toa was saved from the termites of the ashen forest by a passing herd of gorillas. He was looked at sternly. He was admonished for his lack of believability.
Todd rewrote the chapter four more times before coming to the notion that the termites forgot about Toa, and she passed in and out of consciousness from the pain of her decompression. Eventually her mind snapped and wiggled out of her body and, fresh without the need to concern herself with her flesh, Toa flitted about, up and over, and, through and under the ash until she found a cool cave, blocked by the paper thin corpses of a buffalo and its companion. Through this death Toa's spirit dragged her body --bloodying her elbows, her fingertips, her knees; finger and toe nails ground down by the corrosive ash, but finally resting in (momentary) safety, under the antiseptic darkness of the cave.