It’s dark and the duvet is twisted around her legs. She looks at the clock by the bed: 8:09. For a moment she has no idea if it is morning or night. Then she remembers that it’s still Saturday night. She’d been dreaming of her family. She’d been dreaming of home. She picks up the phone and calls her mother. ‘Mama,’ she says, her voice full of sleep. ‘He is still gone.’ ‘Come home,’ says her mother. ‘I cannot come home. In case he comes back.’ ‘If he comes back he will know where you are. He knows how to get here.’ ‘He cannot get here. The policewoman still has his passport.’ ‘He can phone you and you can come back.’ ‘But what if he is hurt?’ ‘Lily. He is in his own country. If he is hurt there are people there who will look after him.’ ‘I am not so sure, Mama. They came yesterday and took his computer. They said that the kind of fake passport he had comes from the criminal underworld. So he may know dangerous people. He may have crossed them.’ Her mother makes a strange strangled noise.
