The afternoon and evening are spent in a delirium of exploration of Amelie’s new body. Everything is new to her, from the weight to the ache inside her pelvic cradle where her virgin guts are being pressed down like they’ve never been pressed before. You see everything fresh through her eyes, even though your practiced body readily and roughly is sucking the marrow from your breakfast while hers sits almost whole in her stomach.

Amelie stops in front of a stall, clutching her breast. The piece that has caught her eye is a simple but massive beach towel, back on white, depicting the branches and roots of the tree of life emerging from the abstract figure of a woman in the trunk. Celtic designs frame it, placing it squarely in the style of a third of the artifacts here. The hippy market, one of many on the island, is a ranging, chaotic, overpriced and overcrowded procession of tat, souvenirs, clothing, wood and leather.

You stroke Amelie’s hair back from her pale face. Her eyes flicker open. When she first sees you she smiles. The part of you that was tense relaxes. She doesn’t fear or hate you instinctively. Another part ravens. It would have been an excuse to gobble her up right now. You watch doubt and fear and vulnerability chase one another across her sculpted features. She shivers, open as an injured child.