‘What happened to the angel?’ Dewa reaches for a glass of water on the bedside table, avoiding her eye. ‘The gods made good on their word.’ He sighs and both of them lie quietly, thinking about what they ought to be beholden to, the bargains they’ve already struck and the people they’ve left behind.

6pm Saturday night. In a Boulevard town, mum and I debate about whether it’s too early for a cocktail or if my hair is too early or if we’ll even get in. We do the hair in the sliver of light on the black outside of a 711.