I thread my way through the multitude of bodies crowding into the Durbar Square—an area of fifty or more temples dating back to the twelfth century where the exotic snarling heads of a plethora of golden deities glare down at the reverently superstitious populace. I glance at my watch. The air is hot and heavy with the scent of spices. Even though the sky is darkening into night, the streets are getting suffocatingly warm. A trickle of sweat runs down my back. Back in the land of electric light, coloured bulbs are illuminating the tacky souvenir shops as I hit the edge of the tourist area of Thamel. I’m meeting Dean and the group for dinner in a traditional Nepali restaurant and I can’t believe that we’re spending our last night in the company of the people we’ve so badly neglected over the last few weeks. And all credit to them for tolerating our excesses—secretly, I think they’ve rather enjoyed watching our romance play out before them. The lovely Sanjeev has done more than his fair share to keep them happy and I’ll always be grateful to him for that. But I want Dean all to myself for one last time. I feel tears prick my eyes and vow not to think about it now.

I pass an ornately carved building that looks like a significant holy temple, until I see the incongruous Happy Meetings Internet Café sign nailed to the front of it. The temptation is too strong. I’ve resisted emailing home all of the time I’ve been here, even though there have been a couple of opportunities. Edie is probably out of her mind with worry by now and I’m sure it won’t hurt to send her a message to say that I’m safe and well and coming home. I duck into the cool, dark interior and hand over my few rupees. I’m shown into the tiny computer room and sit at one of the three empty terminals available. I tap in my email address and wait while the steam-driven computers chug, chug, chug across cyberspace to find my Hotmail account. Eventually, with much waiting and twiddling of thumbs, it pops open in front of my eyes. As usual there’s ten tons of junk mail telling me how to reduce my debts and where to get my Viagra and my breasts enlarged, but one message catches my eye and takes my breath away. My heart has started up a slow, steady thud inside my rib cage and it’s nothing to do with the buildup of heat in the cybercafé. A message from Jake is blinking at me on the aged, fuzzy screen.

My hand trembles as I flick the mouse over the message and open it. All it says is:

Lyssa—things have changed. I don’t know where to start. Contact me as soon as you can. Love, Jake.