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‘I needed to wee.’
‘She was sneaking in here,’ says the officer.
‘I didn’t sneak anywhere!’
‘I’ll take her back,’ says the nurse.
‘She’s not going anywhere,’ says the officer. ‘She can understand him.’
The nurse looks at me for confirmation. ‘You’ve spoken to him?’
I nod.
‘Ask him if he’s a diabetic.’
I don’t know the word for diabetic in Albanian, so use the English word, which seems to work. Arben talks quickly and I ask him to slow down.
‘He lost his insulin when the boat sank,’ I say.
This seems to confirm what the nurse already knows. ‘Tell him we’ve stabilised his blood sugar levels.’
This takes another feat of memory and guesswork to translate.
Arben interrupts, whispering, ‘Vëlla? Motra?’
‘What happened to his brother and sister?’ I ask.
‘We’re still searching for more survivors,’ says the policeman.
‘What should I tell him?’
‘Just that.’
Footsteps. Running. Cyrus pushes into the room and scoops me into his arms, squeezing me so tightly that I almost break wind.
‘You need a shave,’ I say, complaining. Blushing.
‘You’re back,’ he says, as though I’ve been missing, or on holiday.
I brush his arms away and straighten my pyjamas, feeling my cheeks glow. ‘Can we go home?’
The police officer is adamant that I’m not leaving, but Cyrus has a soft-spoken way of winning people over and finding a compromise. I’m allowed to return to my room until morning. Cyrus folds back the covers and tucks them around me like I’m a child.
‘You promised to wait for me,’ I say. ‘But you weren’t on the pier.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I saw the bodies in the water. You were carrying a little boy and . . .’ I don’t finish. ‘I want to go home.’
‘After you’ve talked to the neurologist.’
‘The who?’
‘She’s a brain specialist. We need to find out what happened.’
‘I know what happened.’
He waits for my explanation, but I don’t have one.
