It was my residence permit, they told me. It wasn’t entirely complete, there was some stamp or other that needed stamping. Or, I had a different sort of permit that didn’t allow me to open bank accounts. I really couldn’t understand. Anyway I couldn’t be named on the account, they said, smiling at me, nodding at me, and instead M had opened the account in his name and given me a card for it. He must have forgotten to tell me, or been embarrassed to. I was embarrassed, there at the bank, with all my useless cards spread out on the table, and my sagging diaper bag and bottles and snacks jumbled and awful and taking up all their clean white space. But you can use the card of course, said the account manager, smiling, flicking her long hair back over her shoulder, even though it’s not in your name. But I can’t, I said, use the card. They offered me a second cup of coffee.

We left the bank and walked over to the lake and up to the pier where the Jet d’Eau shoots up and out of the water and you can feel the spray on your face and we did, feel it. We spread out our arms and turned in circles with all the other people who were visiting the city. Just feeling all that water land so lightly on our faces.

M was home and M was gone again. He called the bank and ordered me a new credit card. It’s so dumb, he said, that I couldn’t put you on the account. I meant to tell you. We’ll fix it later, he said. When I’m not so busy at work. We’ll figure something out. Sorry about this, I said. No problem, he said, really. Let me know if there’s anything else. No, I said, it’s OK.

Maybe we were residents of different countries now, me and M. There was, at least, an ocean of paperwork between us, stamps, seals, phone numbers to call, people to reach that could not be reached. Different kinds of permits permitting different kinds of things. Our credit cards were almost identical to look at, but of course that meant very little, or really that meant nothing at all.

As a girl I learned SOS in Morse code. I could flash it with a flashlight or rap it with my knuckles on a wall or counter. I could even signal it with my eyelids, with the way I blinked. In case a stranger took me by the hand and tried to make me get in his car, I could blink for help surreptitiously. I suppose, the main thing about what I assumed, was that someone would be there to come when I needed it, would be there watching me, waiting for my signal even. The trick, I must have thought, was only to know the right way to ask.

When I was a girl, I was often involved one way or another in elaborate games. They were like boats, the games, that sailed me from here to there, between the minutes, safely from one hour to the next. One summer my favourite game was called Flash-Flood. In the game I was stranded, alone, on a beautiful island. Everywhere the ground was carpeted with dry grass and beautiful flowers. In the middle of the island was a tree with a treehouse that could be accessed by a narrow wooden ladder.