It doesn’t, although it lessens. There is a stumbling journey out of the dark room, hands reaching, palm-cold, damp walls, always on the verge of collapse, into the only remaining space you call your own, the kitchen. Of course you have a bathroom, but it doesn’t count. That’s out in the corridor, is filthy even when it is clean, and is shared. You are taking two steps and falling, sometimes with a thud, pushing yourself to your feet and creating momentum, taking two more. There is a smell that jars something, a remembrance maybe, but once noted it is gone, and you raise your head, trying to recapture the trail. You are hearing something, some rustling and a maddening silence that follows, even as you frown to yourself, strain to hear better, enter the kitchen searching brown, stained cupboards and the counter caked with spilt food, breadcrumbs, the illegible scrawl of tea-trails. Learning nothing, you turn to the dull concrete floor with unfocused, blood-reddened eyes.

There. It is there, though you hardly believe it. The huddled, whimpering figure of a boy crouched with his knees up, head bowed, his face obscured. He’s trembling. He wears simple jeans with large holes in the knees, a worn yellow T-shirt, Cadmium Yellow Light you think, before bringing your mind back to matters at hand. His hair is brown with dust, clumped together, and the smell you already encountered in the bedroom is a mixture of rainwater and rot. The clothes are bruised and shadowed with use, a street kid, you think, who broke into your home, there are thousands in the city, willing to rape, rob, murder. You are desperate for the boy to leave, scared he might possess a weapon. You reach for the reassurance of the blade while your head reels and the tide pushes, pulls, and you feel your body rock with motion.

‘Hey,’ you bark. ‘Hey! Get outta here!’

The boy digs his head deeper into the dark pit between his legs and arms. He snivels louder now, and his shaking is more noticeable. You produce the blade from your back pocket, point.

‘Hey!’ you call, louder. ‘Get the fuck out! Now! Or I’ll chuck you, an’ you won’t like it!’

Deeper, until all you see is the two-toned, matted hair, dark black and chocolate brown, as if the dusting were a lightly sprinkled garnish.

‘C’mon,’ you say. Adrenaline helps you find strength. You step forward, one hand outstretched, to grab him.