Inside, the warehouse smelled of unwashed flesh and old urine, the stench of stale alcohol seeping from pores, and a sweetness that I recognized as cheap opium. Crumpled shapes lay here and there in the darkness. I found a corner that didn’t smell too bad, where the earth seemed dry, and lay down.

I don’t believe I slept, at least not for more than a few moments, waking again with a lurch of fear every time I drifted off. I thought about the kitchen at the inn, the food I had once made, rich with oil and wine and spices, the smell of Ifrahim’s pipe and the cats that would purr against my belly, and I had to stifle my face in the rank collar of the jacket, so that the sound of tears did not give me away.

At one point, startled by footsteps, I opened my eyes to find a figure leaning over me. Without a word, I drew the knife. The figure stopped then, and moved away. I passed the rest of the night with the knife in my hand, glinting in response to the eyes I was certain were watching.

By the time dawn came I felt even weaker than the day before. Hunger and weariness made my ears ring, my eyes glaze, turned my thoughts into a mass of tangled threads. I knew I had to do something, but I couldn’t fathom what. If I could only get a meal, if I could only fill my belly, I might be able to think.

When I stepped out of the warehouse, the rising sun nearly felled me. It was so bright, so generous, spilling radiance over the sea. I wanted to drink that light. It would taste of pomegranates and cold butter, strawberries wet with dew and honey dripping from a comb. I followed the light down to the water’s edge, dipped my hands into the surf, deliciously cool, and drank.

Of course, it made me sick, and the dream faded, leaving me shivering and wretched. I suppose it must have cleared my head a bit though, for when a shadow fell across me, I was able to look up.

An old man – or a man who had been made old – was side-eyeing me as he rinsed a shirt in the water. His ribs stuck clear of his chest like a dog’s, and there were scars across his abdomen. He might have been the one who had come near me in the night. I didn’t know.

‘Tap’s behind the boats,’ he said, jerking his head.

I muttered thanks to him, before remembering the crumpled cigarettes in my jacket. When I took one out the man’s face turned almost as bright as the sun. I held it out to him and we smoked it together, crouched at the shore.

‘Border’s good picking, around breakfast time,’ he said, after a while. ‘Show you if you want.’