He had been convinced to enter a room full of flies in order to reach a window on the other side, open it, and set the flies free because, they said, there was a wounded child in that room, lying on a bed by that window, who had been wounded and lying in that bed by the window for days, and someone must go in to get her.

He didn't question why no one else would go in. There were five of them who had hailed him in the street, three men and two women, pushing him into that room. One of the men wore thick rimmed glasses and looked like an office worker. Another looked like a laborer, his hands blackened from soot-like dirt. The third man was an older man who seemed either half-blind or demented. Both the women were middle-aged, dressed like women you might find running a food stall, cheap blouses, ill-fitting tights. They seemed to him sincere and it didn't enter his mind to ask why they would hail down a stranger riding by on a bike to do the task rather than enter and save the child themselves. 

Protecting his nose and mouth with his sleeve, he opened the door. As he entered, he heard the door shut behind him and heard a key turning in the lock. He stepped deeper into the room.  The room in front of him was dark. He could hear the flies, then a moment later he felt them on his cheeks and against his eyes.

There was no window at the far end. There was a window to his right covered by a thick curtain and taped shut. There was no bed in the room and no child. On a table in the center of the room were mounds of flies, some of which flew clear as he stepped closer, revealing pots of honey.