As they drove through the darkness, Damian did all of the talking. He’d woken from his nap, he told her, and headed out to the sweat lodge to see what was going on. It was like nothing he’d ever seen: shaven headed people lying strewn on the ground like broken dolls, sobbing and gasping or else stumbling around looking confused, waving away the water bottles that were pressed into their hands by hotel staff. He’d found Alan, sitting on his own on a low wall, but when he asked him what had happened the Welshman didn’t make any sense. He just kept repeating, ‘I’m Phoenix. I’m Phoenix now.’ As Damian tried to convince him to get some water there was a scream from beyond the sweat lodge, a sound so hysterical, so grief-stricken, it tore straight through him. He sprinted back across the waste ground as men and women dropped to the ground where they stood, too exhausted to take another step. Someone must have alerted the hotel because the area was flooded with staff, their smart, dark uniforms incongruent with the half-naked guests, grubby and pale in their bikinis and swim shorts, their panicked shouts punctuating the wails and sobs of the guests. One shout, in English, cut through the rest: ‘Someone help, Bessie’s not breathing!’ Damian’s breath caught in his throat as he rounded the sweat lodge. Lying spread-eagled on the ground with her mouth agape and her eyes closed, was Bessie. A woman he recognised from the reception desk was crouched on the rough ground beside her, her locked hands pounding at Bessie’s chest. Sensing she was being watched, the receptionist looked up. Her eyes were flooded with terror, her skin grey with fear.

‘Get an ambulance!’ she screamed then she lowered her mouth to Bessie’s. But Damian didn’t call an ambulance. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He watched, transfixed, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, as Bessie’s chest rose with each forced breath then fell, and didn’t move again until two clasped hands pounded at it. He knew he should get help but he couldn’t look away. He couldn’t process what he was seeing, couldn’t make sense of it, couldn’t draw on past experience and leap into action. All he could do was stare. And then someone brushed past him and a shout sucked the white noise from his brain.

‘Tim’s dead! I think he had a heart attack. Please, someone, help me!’