You were close enough to see the patches sewn onto the seat of Boy’s pants, his hoodie whose sleeves stopped beneath his wrists. You catapulted yourself onto Boy to stop him.

I was fed with a mixture of camel milk and honey. The Gabra women spooned the mixture into my mouth as if I were a baby. As if they knew about Nyakeeru. They ran their hands, as soft and as pliant as mahamri dough, over my stomach so that when I finally ate solid food, it sat easily in my stomach.

She considers sacrificing her pinky finger for even the idea of the memory to leave her, but as she holds the knife a few inches from her hand, you convince her to be patient and leave her fingers intact.