Back to the Living

I end the call to Mrs H—her voice still echoing in my ear, that promise she’d deliver news of my survival to Hasna. The phone is still in my hand when I notice movement next to me.

Sandi lies there, naked, the duvet pooled at her feet, the hotel lamp bathing her bare skin in gold. The sight stops me: her body is a map of bruises, pale scars overlaid with new welts, her skin so much thinner than I remember. These aren’t the marks of one story but many—some I’ll hear, others she’ll take to the grave. I look away, until her hand draws me back.

I.Ph.