Amelie is breathing soft and regular, somehow undisturbed by the increasingly violent complaints of Gemma’s remains that knot your insides. The work of two careful minutes repositions her so she can sleep on the bed. You tuck her in and slip away. Me-time. Spanish plumbing is hazy at the best of times. You’re going to have to go easy, but even as you’re walking, powerful internal spasms are accompanied by a discordant orchestra of phuts, purts, and tremulous piping prrrrts.

Maybe tonight. I swing my legs off the bed too and walk to the bathroom door. Light bleeds around the edges. My heart is pounding as I stand outside it, willing myself to knock, to break this taboo. Then the door opens in front of me. You find me blinking in the light, looking vaguely nervous, but my lips have the tight set they get when I’m determined about something.