Simi’s focus starts to fade. The edges of her vision swim, blurring around Katania’s teeth white smile. It is tight and disapproving, and holds for a wing beat, then it vanishes as Katania chops briskly through Aneke’s hopes of a ride.

“No. No room for you. Possibly the doctors. That’s why I’m here. But I do have quite a lot of luggage with me. Essentials …”

Simi leans back on the sofa with helicopters spinning her mind to the point of nausea. They thump through her, dragging voices behind them. Some talk of rescue, others of disaster. She tries to listen through the ache, but worse than the ache now is anxiety, fresh and urgent. The anxiety knows and she knows, something is very wrong with her hand. She is sweating now. Her back sticks to her kaftan, and her kaftan is damp beneath her arms. She forces herself upright, and turns to Marybelle to ask for help, but Marybelle does not see her. Marybelle has both hands over her mouth, eyes shocked, as her whole body listens horrified to Dr Miriam’s description of the damage and the dead seen that morning. Simi’s plan to tell Marybelle evaporates, and she collapses back again.

She closes her eyes and rests, her breathing shallow. She hears a groan. Then it comes again. She notices that the voices have stopped talking, and that the groan has changed to whimpering. She tries to place it, but gives up, her head too heavy to search. Then she feels a hand on her arm. She opens her eyes and sees Marybelle’s face looming close. There is another groan, close and raw, and she realises it is she who is groaning and whimpering. She hears Marybelle call her name again.

 “Simi. Simi. I’m so sorry. Where did my mind go? Dr Miriam please, would you have a look?”

Simi closes her eyes. She can hear people talking, and she knows most of them, but she cannot follow what they are saying, for her head is sludgy with the mud of nightmare – with rain, and more rain, with lost families, and bones. The bones. Those bones. She cannot remember where they come from. It bothers her. She starts to fret. Searching. Not quite reaching. Whose were the bones? Why the bones? Then, as she starts to sink, she feels a new hand on her forehead. She tries to respond, to catch herself somehow, but she is exhausted, and her body heavy as lead. It is weighed down and clammy, and her eyes throb. She drops her chin on to her chest, desperate to sleep. Just for a little.

“Simi. Simi.”

Yes. No. Please wait. Must sleep. Just … later …

“Simi!”

Simi opens her eyes, and sees someone, but she cannot focus. She cannot keep her eyes open.

“Simi. Please. You have to try. Please.”

The tone pulls Simi from the deep. She looks up again. She tries to sit straighter, manages slightly, but with each movement the band around her forehead gets tighter and tighter. She sees Dr Miriam kneeling beside her, studying her. Simi feels sick.

“Simi, may I look at your hand please?”

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023