When he returns, if he returns, I bet that Rudy will be received with suspicion. He’ll be treated like a double agent for his trip to Europe. Comfort can seduce anyone; that’s what they’ll say. It’s not like they wouldn’t have a similar reaction to an islander working with the state off the island – but in a case like that, they’ll stress that he was born on the coast, and if he does all right for himself, only some of his initial supporters will turn on him, depending on what suits them best. That’s the fate of the redeemers: there’s no happy ending, and only time can vindicate them. I’ve pictured everything except Rudy being so far away. ‘It’s a historic call,’ he’d tell me.

I hit reply and thank him for the surprise discovery and his news. I hope to hear from him again soon, and I ask him to remember that I’ve declared myself an adopted apprentice. I continue with my online to-do list.

Hello Miss Hazel!

I’m Victoria Baruq, and I was told at the library that I should reach out to you about a little research I’m doing about the surnames Lynton and Bowie, and about Irish and Scottish migration to the island. The head librarian told me that your book features a few characters based on that migratory flow, and I’d love any advice about how I might learn more about my own genealogy. I’d be grateful for any information you…

And I offer my best wishes, thanks again, sincerely, etc. I stop. It’s almost three in the morning and the wall fan rattles lightly in the breeze blowing in from outside. I put everything away and smooth the sheet over my legs, still hot from the laptop. I wave the monitor over the sensor. Slow insulin has worked well today; no relapses. I’m in that delicious in-between state before sleep, when my paranoias are about to turn into dreams, when bam! I hear a distant honk, then two. Closer now. Something smells like shit. Ah, damn. It’s the lorry that’s come to clear the septic tank. What kind of dream has it scared off in me? I wonder what everyone else feels when this lorry shows up to haul off the wastewater and dump it who knows where – can anyone sleep through the racket of the engine, the horrible screech of the brakes, memorable as it is? It’ll go on for another half-hour. I switch the bedside lamp back on, return the computer to my lap and glance at my inbox with resentful eyes. There it is, Miss Hazel Robinson’s reply in all caps.

hi victoria. i’m not on the island right now. i met your grandmother and old lynton in the house by the colegio bolivariano. please don’t call me miss, i’m tired of all that.