The sun finds the window and moves across the floor. I lie, eyes half open, enjoying its warmth. Unlike my cell, the dirt floor here is covered with brightly coloured rugs. I cannot imagine spiders or scorpions daring to enter this rainbow heaven filled with chatter and laughter.

It will end soon, I know, but perhaps I can store up the memory for when they take me back to my cell.

The women point to items in the room, requesting my words for them. They try them out, smiling when I correct them. I do the same and they smother laughter at my attempts to reproduce their sounds.

I ask about the others, all the time using the word ‘nurse’, but my questions only cause consternation, although I suspect the elderly woman knows what I’m asking. Her jet-black eyes seem to me to contain the entire world in their deep darkness.

I have finally decided that when they take me back to my prison, I will seek out my friend, the black scorpion, and accept the escape route he offers, because the sweet memories of being here with the women will be too hard to bear.

And eventually that time comes.

I am given a clean blue burka to put on over my undergarment and sandals for my feet. As this is done, I am patted and fussed over like a child. When they believe me ready, I am handed the baby to say goodbye.

I kiss the soft hair on his head and am happy that he is obviously thriving. The mother takes my hand. I know she is thanking me, but I cannot speak.

The older woman leads me to the doorway and, pulling back the curtain, takes me into the outer room. My fear threatens to overwhelm me, but I still allow myself to be steered outside.

When my eyes adjust to the bright light, through the mesh I view the empty compound. Which of the buildings is my jail? And where are the others being held?

As the baby’s father appears, the old woman is dismissed. Her final words tell me to praise Allah. I believe in that moment that I have been washed and dressed ahead of my execution.

But perhaps not.

I am led to a building larger than my previous cell, and encouraged to enter, after which the door is closed behind me. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dimness, but in the gloom I sense – no, smell – a presence other than my own.

‘Sugarboy?’ I say, searching for him among the shadows.

Then the other scents hit. Sugarboy, if he exists in here at all, is not alone.

‘Seven,’ a voice says.

Can this be real?

I make out the others now, emerging like wraiths from the darkness, and believe the opiate the women have encouraged me to drink is giving me hallucinations.

I catch all their scents now, even his.