She comes in the night when the house is sleeping and reaches my window without raising dogs. Her fingernails strum on the gauze of the window; there is a wild-haired Medusa in the paneless frame.

The candlelight sends geckos scuttling, and Javier is there at the door, easing the bolt already. I tell him it is I who should go and he lets me.

Her eyes are raw from so much crying, her hair enflamed by the humid night. Side by side we sit by the shit pit, and she tells me again about her loathing and fear, about nightmares in the daytime and the Larium frenzy of night. She’s been here way too long.

She asks me if she can lie with me - please just hold me, only for a little while - but I resist her pleas and lead her back.

The moon is gibbous as we cross the Northern Highway. We walk in silence, in fear of revealing our truths.