For these, I was in and out the same day – it was all lasers and cool cream application for the moles and scars. For the hairline, I was under the impression that they somehow magically transplanted new long hair to the front of my head and all of a sudden I’d have bangs like Camila Cabello but no, of course not. They first had to shave the back of my head, remove each tiny follicle individually and then transplant them, one at a time, to the front of my head which, between doses of pain medication, felt like I was being injected with poisonous ants. I’d have to wait weeks for the hair to grow out as well so no quick thrills there. In the meantime, I’d look like a Bedlam test case for a frontal lobotomy.

But I guess if the cap fits…

David, Saúl and Mátilda brought me gifts when I was recovering – drawings they’d done, friendship bracelets and bags of avocados, pomegranates and pecans they’d picked from one of the fields over the back. Sometimes they’d sit on the end of my bed – David telling me stories in Spanish to help me learn the language. Mátilda would play with my hair and paint my nails and Saúl would run small cars up and down my blanketed legs. They were under strict instructions from Celestina to leave if I got too tired.

Tenoch left all my meals on a tray outside my room. When he did come in to see me, he kept it brief.

‘How are you today?’

‘Meh.’

‘Your flowers need you. They need watering.’

‘Water them then.’

‘I think they would rather it was you. They like it when you talk to them and dance for them with your little radio on.’

Cut to me, lying there, spent from a whole day’s doing nothing, trying to summon a fuck to give. In the end, I couldn’t. ‘Flowers don’t care who waters them. They’ll take it from anyone. They’re sluts. Like Lana.’

‘Who?’

‘Just water them, will you please?’

‘Anything else?’

‘Have you got any drugs? Like Prozac or anything? Xanax?’

‘No.’

‘You’re ex-cartel and you can’t even cadge me a bit of Prozac?’

‘That’s not what you need. You need to get up and get busy. Breathe in some fresh air. Tend your garden. It will make you feel better.’

‘Whatever,’ I mumbled.

‘Shall we practise your backstory again?’

‘No, not yet. Later. I can’t do anything right now.’

‘OK. Anything else I can do for you?’

‘Don’t let Paco up here to use the bathroom. He took a shit yesterday and it still stinks.’

‘That wasn’t him, it was Arturo. He is lactose intolerant. Paco force-fed him some heavy cream for a joke.’

‘Ugh. Keep him away from me. Keep all of them away.’

‘As you wish, gatita.’

Wednesday, 6 March – Hacienda Santuario