Ingrid wakes in a Turkish hospital bed. At least, the juice box on her bedside trolley has Turkish writing, and although the air conditioning unit over the ward’s balcony window struggles valiantly, heat and humidity creep in around the wooden shutters. A trail of ants leads from the sill, where oleander leaves wedge their blade-like leaves, to a drop of blood on the floor. Ingrid’s left hand has sutures across the palm. The obelisk, Ingrid realizes. I cut my hand on the sharp edge of it. It’s difficult to open the straw packaging, to drink the juice one-handed. It’s delicious,