(I know how much you love these musical metaphors.)

My throne rises up and screws itself into the space of the ceiling. The space swells forward in pursuit of the expanding universe of lungs that lack oxygen. Time flowing on its crutches can’t catch up to it. Pain throughout the body. Thirst. I try to choose a word and occupy my thoughts with it. The word is always the same—”dreamtime.” Pressing my back into the chair, with bitterness in my mouth, I draw countless portraits of you, each worse than the last, if only not to see how the ceiling collapses to a point somewhere in the region of the bridge of the nose. Sweet saline flows into me through transparent tubes.

One hour, fifty-nine minutes, and forty seconds.

There’s still time to defeat fear.

There’s still time.

Yours,

F.

Bago, Myanmar

Chapter 5

The hole in the wall had been covered up with planks and a blanket. It wasn’t easy to identify her flat from the courtyard, so K. counted the floors once more. And yes, that was her flat.

He entered the cold stairwell and climbed up. He counted the steps. Everything was covered in a layer of cement dust. It felt as though the building had been vacant for years. K. found with some surprise that he could barely recall how long it had been since he was last there. The passage of time and the rapid deterioration of homes and people’s spirits were out of sync.

In a war, counting steps is easier than weeks or months.

The booming sound of his footsteps faded in the gloom. There was no other noise. A bloody handprint had been left in the dust on the third floor. A woman, most likely.

K. walked faster, but if anything, it felt like his pace was slackening. The sensation that somebody might be watching him lingered. He had to catch his breath after two stories. On the fourth floor, a crow flapped its wings and flew out of a broken staircase window and dived down to the courtyard below.

At last, he reached the fifth floor.

The front door lay on the floor. The corridor was littered with debris from the ceiling. Broken doors in the flat hung from their hinges.

He quickly made his way along the corridor and looked into the old man’s room. There was no window there, just a gaping hole blocked with wooden slats, blankets and clothes.

The floor was strewn with bricks and bits of masonry. Wallpaper drooped from the ceiling. A shapeless human form lay on a mattress in the corner under blankets and grimy clothing. K. sniffed the air: no smell, so they were still alive. He walked over and pulled at the edge of the blanket. What he found was not the old man he was expecting, but Eva. His touch woke her, but she didn’t start or scream. She simply opened her eyes. Blinking and flashing a weak smile with her dry, chapped lips, she took his hand and placed it against her face to shield her eyes against the light. Her forehead was hot, his hands icy. K. put his fingers to her neck to take her pulse. Fifty and barely audible.