The next day, in the hall on the way to therapy, I see Nala (who had returned to her room in the morning) and nod to her. Her face blackens, she turns and moves away from me. “No,” she says when I come to her, putting a hand on her shoulder, “no, no, stay away from me, I don’t want to talk to you now; please don’t make me talk to you,” and something like a seizure overtakes her; she stiffens into a wall and I become momentarily so frightened that I run from her wondering if the monitors will make anything of this. We are observed all the time, if only retrospectively. Everything that I do is timeless, on camera. If only before my enemies I am a performer and I must remember this at all times: the hard bone of her shoulder, the sting of her hands against my flesh, the cries she makes as I fuck her like a soul descending past hell and into memory.