Ever had not witnessed this before; Manita sat in the back sobbing her heart out. Six hours later with his eyes like pins, small, clenching and unclenching to keep awake, determined and focused to get to the hospital, with instructions from Manita; just before dusk, they pulled into the forecourt. Manita, only a notch below hysterical, demanded a gurney and the attention of anyone who was prepared to listen.

Lomita was taken in, after endless form-filling by Manita, to a private room, and the first thing was the insertion of an IV line to give her fluids and nutrition.

This had taken over from the events of three days ago, the concern for Lomita, Ever had not listened to the news, or wanted to, or taken in any of the outside world. It was all about Lomita and only Lomita. After a couple of hours, bloods had been taken from her and Manita suggested to the now slumped Ever, who had been sat in the same seat in the corridor, drifting in and out of somewhere, that they go to the house and return early in the morning to start the next day’s vigil.

She kindly felt, Ever interpreted it as a kindness anyway, that he needed to know where the house was and from there he got the sense it would be up to him. He was not a priority; he agreed, he wasn’t.

They drove from the hospital, leaving San José to the north along a paved road and then a dirt track, driving slowly, as a precaution against wandering animals; the temptation to put it to the floor and get there and breathe was almost irresistible.

On the instruction to turn right up a sandy bank they entered the first set of gates of Casa Lomita. Pedro came out of the caretaker’s casita and opened up the house with a warm greeting for Manita.

*

Ever walked into this world of its own.

With the only sound being the sea and the whistling osprey, which Manita pointed out, settled on top of the lighthouse, lit by the light beneath. Ever looked up and then he saw the stars. Clear, close, and talking. They parked the Suburban next to a sand-coloured Toyota F J Cruiser, and walked through the house; Pedro opened the doors, Ever stepped out onto the terrace and the moon, not full but waning, still had the strength to throw light across the ocean, enabling him to see a world with no problems and no relation or connection to anything. It was a dream that could never be dreamt, spread before you in reality better than any fantastical construction could ever be. Pedro, as is the traditional hospitality of Baja, produced a bottle of tequila and a small shot glass and placed them on the marble-topped table on the terrace.

‘Welcome to Casa Lomita, señor. Tomorrow I start early with the delivery. I wish you to sleep well. Buenas noches.’