“I’ll wrap my hand carefully,” she promised. “Thank you.”

Po Lam left her to settle in. The air in the room was warm and stifling, so she opened the window to let in the breeze. Almost immediately it began to rain, forcing her to shut the window in a hurry.

The bathroom down the hall was almost as large as the room she’d shared with eight others at the lodging house. The door locked behind her with a satisfying click. Gean Choo leaned against the door and stared at the tiles. They were blue, white, and teal, with rhomboids arranged in a star-like pattern. The bold colours were almost hypnotic if she stared at them for too long. She glanced reflexively under the sink for rat droppings but found none, and even the basin was free of dust.

Inside the old tea caddy were rolls of bandages and a bottle of mercurochrome, its label stained, the blotches shading from bright to dark red. When she unwrapped her hand, she found her handkerchief stuck to the wound. The cuts stared at her accusingly and when she sluiced her hand, it turned the sink crimson.

Four weeks.

The mercurochrome stung. The thin crust of antiseptic on the applicator stained her fingers, turning the dry skin around her nails red. It seemed a pity to waste bandages, but she didn’t dare disobey Po Lam and used two full rolls, wrapping until her hand was as puffy and white as a steamed bun.

With her good hand, she washed her face and brushed her hair, wishing for a mirror, but then scolded herself for the vanity. She re-tied her hair into its long, single plait and took the comb back to her room. Fifteen minutes had passed, maybe.

Inside, the room was plain and clean, large enough to fit nine pallets on the floor without overlapping. There was a bed and a nightstand in pale wood, and a chest the width of the bed, made from rattan. The room’s window faced the garden, overlooking the big tree, the grey line of the fence in the distance.

Gean Choo flopped onto the bed and pressed her face into the pillow, inhaling the scent of soap. The rough-spun cotton felt wonderfully clean, bleached to a crisp white, and there was even a mosquito net in soft muslin, currently tied to one side. She stretched out her hands and feet, spreading herself wide like a starfish, luxuriating in the emptiness, the privacy. There was nothing adorning the walls, nothing crowded against the ceiling. The simplicity made the already large space look bigger. Outside, the rain pattered against the tiles, the ocean gurgled along the shore and gulls called overhead. Much closer, a gecko chirped, almost bird-like in tone.

She could get used to this.