Pieter sent his hand

The bag is quiet now. I can hear the bakkie ticking in the driveway, cooling down, and the bag is quiet. She has stopped rolling. I don't know if that is good or bad. I am not going to check tonight.

Someone put his hand on my wrist today. Pieter's man. He grabbed me like I was a clipboard. The bite I was already hiding under the bandage opened again, and the blood ran down onto my jeans, and I sat with it and drove home. I washed the wrist under cold water. I did not change the jeans. I don't know what that means yet. I am not ready to name it.

Yesterday Pieter sent nothing. I checked twice and pretended it was the lab invoice. Today he sent his operator with the bite-file open on his phone. I am not going to translate that into feelings. The translation is already done.

Section 65. The MEC signed it himself. Not a clerk. Not a regional officer. The MEC himself. So the operator's clipboard wasn't enough. Pieter needed the top man. I am not going to rank this but my body already did — his hand on my wrist outranks me. The MEC's signature outranks me. I am currently without a permit in a cottage that smells like rooibos and a pair of jeans with my own blood drying on the left thigh.

I sat at the kitchen table with the phone face-down and the kettle still warm and I did not call her. Yesterday I wrote her name down to make it smaller. It did not get smaller. I am done with that trick.