She lay beside him, trying to fight these birds off. Beside her, Star was busy; he was doing something she did not want to watch. She could hear him undo his zipper. She could hear his hands move, feel body movements, hear the alteration in his breath. She could sense stealth, and also desperation. Finally, when she could bear it no longer, and the birds had retreated for a while, she opened her eyes cautiously and looked down, under her lids.

He was erect now. He knew, it seemed, how to arouse himself. As she watched, she saw him take up the gun again and felt a dart of pure fear; then she saw that the gun was to be part of this ritual. He stroked his penis with the barrel of the gun; his flesh quivered. Mina shut her eyes tight. There were more furtive movements, then his body jerked sharply: Christ, he said, Christ…

Mina wanted to be sick. She was shaking with fear and disgust and pity and love. She thought, I must wait; I must wait.

It was dawn when her chance came. She could hear the birds outside begin singing; she watched a thin gray light begin to edge the curtains. It must be seven-thirty, perhaps nearing eight. Star’s eyes were closed, his breathing regular. She inched toward the edge of the bed; just as she was about to rise, his hand shot out and gripped her wrist.

“Star,” she said in a whisper. “I don’t feel too good. It’s that grass. I have to be sick…”

She thought he might insist on coming with her to the bathroom, but he did not. He turned and gave her a long, still look with his blue-black eyes. He looked into her and through her, and Mina thought: he knows; he knows I’m going to betray him.

He couldn’t have known, though, because he let her go. She padded out to the little bathroom; she was still dressed, but her feet were bare. She didn’t dare to take her shoes—then he would certainly suspect.

In the bathroom she felt the waves of nausea pick her up and toss her forward and back. She was sweating badly; she was terrified she might pass out. She vomited several times, and began to feel a little better. She stole a look over her shoulder, then turned on all the faucets in the bath: almost at once, and just as she had hoped, the pipes began to rattle and cough. She hoped the plumbing was noisy enough to drown the sound of her escape.

She fled down the stairs, expecting him to shout, grab her from behind at any second. She fought with the bolts and the locks on the front door, and when it opened, half fell into the street. She began running, at random, first this way, then that, until she was in a maze of small streets and was sure at last that he could not be pursuing her. She leaned against a wall, tears streaming down her face. She fought to control her own breathing, but she couldn’t seem to get enough air. She took great gulps of cold air, then she realized she was about to be sick again, so she bent over the gutter and coughed up bile.