“You know … there’s quite a bit of talk about this…”

Séverine tenses up. Her face suddenly hardens, and the man can see her cheeks grow hollow as she tries to keep calm. He remembers her well from when they were teenagers, even though they weren’t together for long. He would never have admitted it to his mates, but he was strangely in love, for a kid; so much so that he can remember details like this, like the soft skin in the crook of her elbows, and the smell of her hair and her sweat. Her cheeks, hollow with anger.

“It’s just that… I don’t know… I’d quite like to help you, you see.”

“Help?”

“I mean to find the guy.”

Séverine very gently shakes her head without looking away.

He realizes he’s said something stupid.

“You’re all the same.”

“Séverine…”

“How’s your wife?”

“Fine…”

“And your boy?”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

She gets into the car and slams the door. The noise of the engine drowns Pascal’s last words and his pathetic attempt to say that he’s not as stupid as she thinks.

The Path of the Drip

There’s no one in the hospital corridors. It’s the hottest part of the day and the patients are quietly dying in the muggy heat, with the fans on. Manuel moves forward like a dead man walking, his breath bubbling up thick and raucous, an echo of his father’s, who is lying in the far room on the right. He can’t remember the number but it doesn’t matter, he knows where the room is, he could find it with his eyes shut, it’s been a month now, and not long to go, the doctors said. He walks past the break room, the girls are laughing together, tired, their uniforms off, wearing sleeveless tops, slumped on plastic chairs, fiddling with cigarettes they’ll smoke shortly when they drum up the courage to go downstairs. But it’s too hot and their shift started so early. They look up at him and greet him with a smile. There’s a bunch of photos pinned to the back wall: birth announcements, postcards with blondes embracing the camera lens on overexposed beaches. Right next to them are highlighted memos, roster lists, their individual timetables. One of the nurses fiddles with a packet of chocolate waffles, unbranded, mass-produced rubbish given out to the patients. The chocolate has melted inside the plastic, making them unappetizing. She stands up when she recognizes him.

“He’ll be happy to see you.”

Manuel grunts, nothing else. But he smiles at her anyway, because he’s been taught to be charming with girls. This one’s easily over fifty but as far as Manuel’s concerned, even past a certain age women are still girls. Especially those you can touch, those who grew up not far from here or who do a job that gets their hands dirty.

She gives him an encouraging look. Unable to tell if he dreads it or hopes for it, she hears him murmur, “Is he asleep?”