Courage Borrowed From Naledi

I keep replaying the moment my foot slipped on the wet stones. The wall was right there, and Jonas close enough that I could see the calculation in his face: whether threatening me was enough, or whether he needed the pool to make the point for him.

I wanted to hate him cleanly. Instead, I watched his hands and thought about all the ways a person can become trapped by a door they decided to guard. I know that trap. I have slept in other people’s houses, obeyed their rules, and called the freedom temporary because permanence frightens me more.

Naledi has the phone now. She holds it against her chest like something frightened can be warmed back to life. I should feel relieved. I do, but underneath the relief is the ugliest thought: I put evidence inside another person’s hands and called that giving it back. I asked whether she was willing to carry what I had uncovered. I need to remember that she did not volunteer.

I wrote down every change of hands because facts frightened me less than memory. My notes make Jonas look consistent and Naledi suspicious. That is convenient, and convenience is how I usually begin lying to myself.

Dune’s kit is waiting beside the utility-room door. Part of me wants the route I sketched to become real immediately, before courage hardens into evidence of a plan. Another part knows rushing with a dog into the dark would only be fear wearing sensible shoes.