Next thing, my bag’s round my shoulder. It looks the same, yet less worn, as if it’s just been bought

for the occasion. My phone’s where it belongs: against my ear. I hear a dial tone.

‘Here we go’ the man with the blurred face says. He’s actually started polishing his face. 

‘Hello? Who’s calling me with mama’s phone?’ my daughter asks.

‘Now you’re scaring her’ the man complains. 

The rhythmic sound of the metal gate is slowly fading into the beat of a heart monitor.

I'm in the park but my body must be somewhere in a hospital.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask.

‘Relax’ the man with the blurred face says. By now he is rubbing his face so hard that his chin falls of.

​