He stands motionless at the top of the stairs and there’s something so fragile in the way he’s holding himself that I stop dead. ‘Benjamín!’ I put down the fire extinguisher and take a step towards him, fearing the worst, fearing that any closer might somehow send him spiralling backwards and down. For a second he looks straight through me, then he collapses – slowly, almost neatly, the way a building falls during demolition when its central structure has been removed.

‘Benjamín!’ I crouch down beside him. ‘Are you all right?’ He nods his head almost imperceptibly but his eyes are dull and his skin a flat grey colour. ‘Benjamín!’ I fetch a toothmug of water from the bathroom and hold it to his lips. He coughs and shifts position. Under the harsh light of the naked bulb, the dark patch on his shirt reveals itself bright red.

I help him onto Emmy’s bed. My attempts to unpopper his shirt elicit a weak protest. ‘Oh, come on,’ I say feverishly, but he pushes my hand away and eases his shoulder out of the sleeve. I suck in a breath. Just below his armpit, running up to his collarbone, is a yawning gash.

‘Wait there,’ I instruct him, then race down to the kitchen, fighting mounting panic. What to do? What to get? Boiling water? Clean towels? But this isn’t a pregnancy, dammit. Nevertheless I fill a bowl with hot water, grab a clean dishcloth along with the first-aid kit from under the sink and race back upstairs.

I daub away at the soft edge of the wound, biting my lip, because what do I know about knifings? What do I know about gunshots and vigilantes and the murder of Border Patrol guards? The gash is uneven, the flesh on either side shredded and raw. I flash back to the weaponry of Hogan’s army, to Robert’s stumbling confession and feel a white-hot rage. Tiny fragments of shirt are embedded inside the wound. The gash is deep but from Benjamín’s breathing it doesn’t appear to have punctured his lung. He can move his fingers, he can lift his arm. He raises his eyes to mine. ‘You have to go to the Border Patrol, Alice.’

I draw back and stare at him. ‘Benjamín, no!’

‘If you don’t, there will be people killed tonight.’ He winces as he claws the shirt over his shoulder.

‘Benjamín, what happened?’ And he starts talking.