The kids start coming by the compound after that. Not inside—the walls are too high, and the gate is always locked—but they play near it, close enough that I can talk to them through the bars. Asha brings me shells she finds on the beach. Marcus shows me a lizard he caught and named George. Celine sits on the other side of the gate and tells me rambling stories about her day in a mix of English and Bajan Creole that I’m slowly learning to understand.
I look forward to seeing them. It’s the only part of my day that feels real, that doesn’t revolve around waiting for Victor to decide my fate.
One afternoon, Celine gives me a flower. It’s small, white, already wilting in the heat, but she picked it herself and carriedit all the way to the compound just to hand it to me through the bars. “For you,” she says, gap-toothed smile bright.
I take it, and something in my chest cracks open. “Thank you,” I manage, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended.
Celine beams and runs off to chase Marcus, who’s stolen her doll and is holding it above his head while she shrieks at him to give it back.
I stand there holding the flower, and I don’t understand why I’m crying. It’s just a flower. Just a kind gesture from a child who doesn’t know anything about me except that I sometimes give her family food. But I can’t stop the tears.
Helena finds me like that ten minutes later, sitting on the ground with my back against the compound wall, face wet, clutching a wilted flower like it’s something precious. She doesn’t say anything, just sits down beside me and waits.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I say finally.
“You’re exhausted,” Helena says. “And you’ve been through a lot.”
“I’m crying over a flower.”
“Sometimes that’s all it takes.”
I wipe my face with the back of my hand, but the tears keep coming. Everything suddenly feels too big, too overwhelming. The heat, the isolation, the endless waiting.
“I think I need to lie down,” I say.
Helena helps me up and walks me back inside. The air-conditioning hits like a shock after the humid heat outside, and I’m shivering by the time we reach my room.
“Rest,” Helena says. “I’ll bring you dinner later.”
She leaves, and I collapse onto the bed.
I’m asleep within minutes.
The exhaustion doesn’t go away.
Over the next week, it gets worse. I’m sleeping ten to eleven hours a night and still waking up tired. My body feels heavy, like I’m moving through water. Simple things—walking to the market, sitting on the balcony, talking to the kids through the gate—leave me drained.
Helena notices. Of course she notices. “When’s the last time you had your period?” she asks one morning while we’re having breakfast.
I look up from my plate, where I’ve been pushing eggs around without eating them because the smell makes my stomach turn. “What?”
“Your period. When was it?”
I try to remember. The last one was…before the plane. Before Cassian. Before everything fell apart.
“I don’t know,” I say. “A while ago.”
“How long is a while?”
“I don’t know, Helena. I’ve been a little distracted.”
“You’ve been tired,” she says slowly. “Nauseous in the mornings. Emotional. Your breasts are tender—I’ve seen you wince when you put on your bra.”
“It’s the heat. The stress. Being locked up in this place?—”
“Aurelia.”
The way she says my name stops me cold. We stare at each other across the table, and I feel the world start to tilt.
